


Dueling Hearts

by Engineer104



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ...there's only one L in dueling wtf ao3, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Confinement, Crack Treated Seriously, Duelling, F/M, Fluff, Jealous Lance (Voltron), Jealousy, Medieval Aesthetic, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, the timeline is weird, they fought lotor but still have the castle of lions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-01 07:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16760344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: The king of a planet that Voltron is attempting to sway to the Coalition misinterprets the nature of Lance’s relationship with Pidge…and promptly challenges him to a duel for her hand in marriage. Lance accepts immediately, much to his teammates’ (especially Pidge’s) mortification. The only problem? Lance still hasn’t figured out how to unlock his bayard’s broadsword form at will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> that is the most Transparent summary i've ever written...because it's the exact same summary i sent as a pitch when i initially meant to write this for a Bang, but anyway
> 
> oof this fic has been...some time in the making. i had the idea a few months ago, promptly forgot about it after bouncing a few ideas around with my friend/beta reader [Rueitae](https://rueitae.tumblr.com/) despite submitting it to a Bang, then, after _dropping out_ of the Bang, i had the Motivation necessary to outline and hammer out this whole fic in about...ten days?? or something like that
> 
> my thanks to Rue for beta reading and to everyone else who encouraged me and listened to me whine about this fic while i wrangled with it. it was fun to write, so i hope you all have fun reading it <33

“Why do _all_ of us have to be here?” Pidge demands. They’ve just stepped off the Castle, dressed in their colored armor with matching cloaks - Coran’s insistence on regalia especially unusual - and her feet sink into the soft ground.

Barsina’s surface feels spongy underfoot, too much give to be comfortable for walking. Every step she takes surprises her, and she wonders how long it would take for her to pass through the ground and sink down to the planet’s core if she stands still.

“Well,” Allura says carefully as the retinue of their Barsinian hosts approaches, “they would consider it a grave insult if they only received one or two of us.”

“What about _three_ of us?” Lance asks almost snidely.

Pidge bites her lip to stifle a giggle while Allura shoots him an unimpressed look.

She leans towards Lance while they wait and mutters, “I bet you first player Gameflux privileges that Barsinians have webbed toes.”

Lance’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’d never make that bet unless you know you’ll win.”

A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You sure you want to let this opportunity pass you up, Lance?”

“What do you get if you win?” Lance wonders cautiously. He narrows the gap between them, voice low and a smirk on his face.

“That depends on what you want to give me,” Pidge says, matching his conspiratorial tone…although the heat filling her cheeks likely ruins the effect.

“How about a—”

A deep croak interrupts Lance, and he jumps away from her and into Hunk’s broad shoulder with a yelp. Pidge’s head spins around in search of the source of the noise until her gaze falls on the Barsinian delegation.

They look remarkably humanoid apart from a green tint to their skin and flatter noses and rounder, larger eyes and thinner, almost puckered lips - enough that, if she doesn’t know they’re not human she might do a double-take if she spots someone like them on Earth. Lightly armored Barsinians carry long spears with the tips trailing sparks and ride small hovercraft in a circle around the core delegation.

And in the center, amid all the ministers and politicians and whatnot dressed in gowns and doublets and tunics and hose that looks ripped right out of a fantastical Arthurian legend crouches a frog the size of a horse, a Barsinian riding atop it like a _steed_.

“What the quiznak?” Hunk mumbles. “Is that a—ow!”

Allura pinches his ear between two fingers, a strained grin plastered onto her face. “Did I mention Barsinians are a _very_ proud people and don’t take insult easily?”

“I-I wasn’t about to insult them!” Hunk says, raising his hands defensively.

“Good.” Allura lets him go, her face smoothing as she clasps her hands before her. “Barsina is culturally similar to Altea as well, and the Coalition _needs_ their technology—”

“They look like they were spat out by the Middle Ages,” Lance says. “What _tech_ —”

“I don’t know…” Pidge squints at their clothes as they draw closer and wonders if the rich embroidery is really just for aesthetic…or if it’s circuitry that’s glowing with electricity. “They’ve made first contact and have a history of space travel.”

“Even so,” Allura adds, “Barsina’s marshes are fertile and they have a tradition of agricultural methods so sound that even without resorting to synthetic nutrition production they can feed 2 percent of the Coalition’s members.”

“Wow,” Lance deadpans with an eyebrow raised, “a whole 2 percent.”

Pidge adjusts her glasses as she glances sideways at him. “Actually, considering how big the Coalition is, that’s a _huge_ percentage for just one planet to feed.”

Lance’s eyes widen, but he’s spared the need to reply when the Barsinian riding the _giant frog_ raises a hand and calls, “Well met, Paladins of Voltron!” He grips his reins and, with a snap, the frog bounds away from the rest of the group to splash across the shallow creek that separates them.

The guards on their hovercraft zip ahead to keep up with them, but by the time they catch up he dismounts, wide, flipper-like boots sinking into the peaty ground and a broad smile stretching his yellowish lips. “Welcome to Barsina! I am King Thurar, and I look forward to our negotiations.” His eyes - with their odd vertically slitted pupils - flit around, taking each of them in at a time.

“Thank you for your welcome, Your Majesty,” Allura says with a smile of her own. “I’m Princess Allura of Altea. While I am also the Blue Paladin of Voltron, I am here representing the Coalition so most of your dealings will be with me.”

“Pleased to meet you, Princess,” the king says. He takes Allura’s hand and shakes it.

Huh, Pidge almost expected him to kiss it…though perhaps that’s not the custom here. She glances at Lance, on the verge of making a comment, but when she notes that his gaze is on Allura’s hand clasped in the king’s and that his lips are twisted into a frown her chest tightens.

_Of course._

But Pidge can’t hold back the irritation that flares up, so she pokes his arm and points out, “It’s just a handshake.”

“Huh?” Lance turns to her, confusion written all over his face. “So what? Didn’t you see the king’s—”

“These four are the other Paladins,” Allura says, interrupting them with a pointed glance. She introduces them each in turn starting with Keith, King Thurar offering them a smile and a nod, until she mentions Pidge. “And our Green Paladin, Pidge.”

Pidge wonders if she imagines King Thurar’s gaze lingering on her face, his cool hand with delicate webbing between the fingers gripping hers tightly. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Green Paladin.”

“Uh…you too,” Pidge says lamely. She forces a smile and tries not to wipe her hand on her cloak when he finally lets it go.

“Now, on to Tolemac Castle and the tournament grounds!” King Thurar spins around, boisterous and grinning, as a guard hands him the reins of his frog steed. “As we go, allow me to tell you of the history of Barsina!”

“Actually, I have one question,” Hunk says, walking abreast of the mounted king through the shallow creek. “How do you build something as big as a _castle_ in a marsh?”

“Well,” Thurar says, brightening at his interest, “our building materials are quite sophisticated and…”

Though Pidge attempts to listen attentively, Lance is quick to distract her by gesturing at the sights while they draw away from their own Castle and into the small city built on a range of very low hills raised over the rest of the marsh. Water runs in rivulets and creeks and streams between hills, bridges crossing over though Pidge spots a few Barsinians eschewing them in favor of fording the shallows.

No building constructed of a variety of materials ranging from stone (likely transported from elsewhere if not from a different _planet_ ) to wood to steel rises higher than five feet, their square or round shapes evoking the towers of a castle. Communication antennae poke out of balconies and from peaked roofs alongside flags unfurling in the breeze, and steam trails through the cyan sky as a shuttle launches from a distant pad.

Paved streets give her feet more _structure_ than the marsh did, and she can’t help rolling her heels, the better to bask in the lack of _squishiness_ underfoot. She rolls her eyes when Lance laughs and says, “Like you feel any different.”

“No, this is a relief,” Lance agrees with a bounce. His gaze roves over the small city and down the narrow street towards where the rest of their team walks with King Thurar and his retinue of Barsinians. They’ve fallen behind the others, but Pidge can’t feel too guilty with every new sight that greets her.

Electrical lights and power cables and the unmistakable communication devices hanging from pedestrians’ belts are at odds with how _old_ the aesthetic of their culture seems, and children with mud drying on their cheeks chasing each other down the street on small hovercraft doesn’t help.

They see no more giant frogs, at least, although a few Barsinians walk cat-sized salamanders on leashes.

Little plant life grows alongside the paved streets, but as they cross short bridges between island-like hills, soft and rich green grasses with delicate yellow flowers emerge from the water’s rippling surface. Trees with roots arcing out of the streams offer shade, and moss covers almost every surface, from bark to the walls of stone buildings.

Including Tolemac Castle, the political center of Barsina.

Flags marked with a green frog’s silhouette fly from ramparts. Barsinians patrol the wall with their sparking spears alongside security drones that fit the old Earthling concept of a UFO or flying saucer, a flashing green indicator light atop them. A colored projection displays a list written in the curly Barsinian script before shifting to a picture of a heavily armored figure astride a giant frog with a lance in hand.

“They even _joust_ ,” Lance mutters to her.

Pidge snorts, unable to help her amused smile. He flashes her a grin and takes her arm as they catch up to the rest of their team and their hosts, standing at one end of a bridge leading to an archway passing under the castle’s walls.

“—although we have an extensive drainage system to compensate for any design flaws!” King Thurar is explaining. He rests a hand on Hunk’s shoulder, and when Pidge and Lance join the rest, he shoots a smile in their direction.

Pidge returns it, unsure how else to respond, and raises a hand to wave.

“Centuries of adapting to the marsh and wetlands culminated in the construction of the majesty you see before you in Tolemac Castle.” King Thurar claps a hand on the shoulder of an older-looking - judging by the wrinkles - woman with glittering yellow embroidery in the bodice of her dress. “If you wish to know more, Yellow Paladin, Minister Lirnem is a master engineer as well as my most trusted adviser.”

Minister Lirnem’s thin lips twist, almost as if with displeasure, but her expression reverts to a pleased smile when Hunk eagerly turns to her.

(Pidge too makes a mental note to pick her brain later; she _really_ wants to know how this interesting amalgamation of old - at least by Earth’s standards - and new came about…)

King Thurar’s hands smack together with an unpleasant _squish_ when he claps and announces, “Tomorrow evening there will be the ball, and the tournament that we are holding in honor of your arrival will commence shortly.” He faces them grinning and adds, “Perhaps one of you Paladins would like to try a tilt for yourself?”

“Tilting?” Lance says. “Like…this?” He raises his arms and leans to one side, one foot coming off the ground. “Easy.”

Pidge giggles and says, “I think he means a joust.”

“Yes!” The king crosses his arms and appraises them. “I will be entering the competition myself, but perhaps ahead of it I can show one of you the finer points of grof jousting.”

“What the quiznak is a—ow.” Keith shoots a glare at Hunk, who smiles innocently at him.

“Well, what do you say?” King Thurar’s eyes narrow as they fall on Lance. “Maybe you’d like to try, Red Paladin. Of course, I’d expect you to exercise caution for jousts have been known to handicap or even kill…”

Something about his tone sends a shiver down Pidge’s spine, but when she glances towards Lance, he looks utterly unperturbed. He raises his hands. “I think I’ll pass; I don’t want to add one more near-death experience. Now Keith, on the other hand”—he slings an arm around Keith’s shoulders—”would _love_ to try.”

Keith shrugs Lance’s arm away but says, “Actually…sure, I’ll give it a go, on one condition.”

Pidge’s jaw drops, as do the others’.

King Thurar grins. “Excellent! What’s the condition?”

“That you tell me what the quiznak a ‘grof’ is.”

* * *

Lance shouldn’t be surprised that the tournament grounds are flooded, and yet, as he sloshes through the shallow layer of murky water, the mud underneath sucking at his boots and his decorative cape - red, matching his Lion rather than his armor - skimming the surface, he can’t help grumbling about having to polish his armor clean later.

At least the spectator stands rising above the marsh on wooden stilts have dry floors.

The stadium is eerily like one on Earth, with monitors on either end displaying the activity on and around the pitch in real time. Neighboring spectators take photos and video with small, pocket-sized cameras, and fans mill about near the stands’ entrance, waiting to greet competitors.

Below, in the moments before the next “tilt” of the tournament begins, King Thurar demonstrates to Keith how to ride a “grof” - which, as far as Lance can tell, is just a giant frog domesticated for riding. Keith looks surprisingly comfortable in the green leather(?) saddle, the reins grasped loosely in one hand while he props a lance on his shoulder.

The docile grof squats in place, its throat quivering as if in preparation to croak and eyes blinking impassively. Every so often its tongue flicks out to catch something _edible_ (for it) buzzing over the flooded pitch.

Keith snaps the reins, and his grof jumps into action, water splashing in its wake right as its rider fumbles the weapon in his hands in an attempt to get it into position.

“I can’t believe you’re letting Keith outdo you,” Hunk says. He leans forward, clutching at Keith’s discarded black cape.

Lance props his arms on the railing and rolls his eyes, a familiar irritation flickering in him. “I’m not _letting_ him,” he retorts, “and I could _totally_ do better!”

As Keith clumsily turns the grof around to face King Thurar, the two urge their mounts into bounding across the wide, wet pitch. The blunt tip of the king’s lance connects with Keith’s breastplate, shoving him sideways and nearly clear off his grof. His lance slips from his grip with a splash.

When Pidge nudges him in the side, he glances towards her and raises an eyebrow. She smirks impishly, and that’s how Lance _knows_ she’s on the brink of teasing him even before she says, “Then why are you up here with us and not down there riding your very own grof and holding a weapon with the same name as you?”

Hunk snickers. "Good one, Pidge."

Lance snorts at the pun, but with Pidge still smirking he can't help a grudging smile of his own. He pokes her side, grinning wider when she smacks his hand away, and says, "Funny, and unlike Keith, I want to survive till that ball tomorrow night." He leans towards her and lowers his voice as he continues, "I'm looking forward to dancing with y—a certain lady."

His heart pounds at the near-confession, heat filling his cheeks while he waits - both hoping and dreading - for Pidge to call him on the slip; quiznak, why can't he work up the nerve to say something already?

Pidge's gaze drifts away from his face to fix on Keith _finally_ falling from his grof and into the murky water. Beside him Hunk hisses in sympathy, but Lance barely hears him, too busy waiting for Pidge to respond, to do something other than toy with the damp hem of her green cape.

"I-I guess that's a good reason to want to live..." she finally says. She folds her arms on the railing and rests her chin on them.

Lance's heart sinks, his fingers curling into fists, but before he can even _think_ of what to say - or wonder why Pidge looks so unhappy suddenly - their guide for the tournament cuts in.

"Survive? Live?" Minister Lirnem leans forward in her seat behind them, her thin lips looking even thinner. "What are you prattling on about?"

On the pitch, King Thurar helps Keith stumble to his feet, and the two of them lead their grofs away and towards wherever horse-sized frogs are housed.

Allura turns to Minister Lirnem and says, "King Thurar said—"

Minister Lirnem lets out a croaking snort befitting an amused frog. "His Majesty exaggerated, which, to be candid, does not at all shock me." A wry smile pushes up her lips. "Jousting is scarcely deadly; there have been no deaths in _centuries_! Worst you might suffer is an injury or a parasite, but those are easily treatable."

Hunk's eyes widen. "That still doesn't sound like much fun to me..."

A bell sounds as two grofs leap over the fencing, mounted by armored riders armed with lances. An announcer tucked away in a box calls, "The first round of the Paladins' Welcome Tourney will commence with Lord Wanaig and Lord Nellion!"

Pidge's cheek rests against her hand, a frown on her face, and Lance's chest tightens.

The jousters below jump their grofs at each other, and Lance pretends to be engrossed in the spectacle and makes a show of clapping when one unseats his opponent and a winner is announced.

He needs some way to cheer up Pidge...

Between matches, Keith returns with his hair plastered to his head by water and mud. Dirt already dries in scattered brown patches on his armor, and he sits heavily between Allura and Hunk.

"Had fun?" Hunk wonders cautiously.

"Actually...yes," Keith says. He rubs a shoulder, rolling his arm, with a wince. "The fall wasn't though..."

Pidge peeks around Lance, a spark of interest in her eyes. "What was it like riding a grof?"

"Like riding a very unstable and living hoverbike," Keith tells her, flashing a grin. He glances sideways at Lance and adds, "A little like the first time flying the Red Lion, even."

Pidge returns the smile, looking marginally more excited as the next match commences.

Lance doesn't give it a second thought. He bolts to his feet and unclips the cape from his gorget and hands it to Pidge.

She takes it and bundles it against her chest with wide eyes. "What are you doing, Lance?"

"I'm going to give this jousting thing a shot," he says, smirking. His heart pounds with renewed fervor even as he says, "I can't let Keith and King Thurar have all the fun."

* * *

Lance trudges back into the stands with an ache in his shoulder where it connected with marshy ground, his hair clinging wetly to his forehead - the helmet he borrowed was _not_ waterproof - and mud plastering his entire right side.

And despite the stiffness in his arm and backside - riding a grof _hurt_ \- he suffers no real injury - nothing except a bruised ego.

Unlike Keith, King Thurar unseated him on his _first_ try.

Lance tries to tell himself that he went easy on Keith - wouldn't want to humiliate the _leader_ of Voltron - or even that the king, for some reason, had it out for _him_ \- seriously, is it just his imagination or did King Thurar's lance connect with his chest a _little_ more forcefully than necessary?

_And_ they loaned him a grof that tried to buck him...and that might've been successful had he not held tight to the lip of the saddle for dear life.

Lance rode a horse a few times as a kid in the midst of his short-lived cowboy phase when all he really wanted for his birthday was horseback-riding lessons. But then the horse was old and docile, an adult trainer kept pace with him and made sure he didn’t accidentally (or totally on purpose) spur his elderly mount into faster than a trot, and the ground was dry.

Not to mention he controlled the jumpy grof with the reins in only one hand, forcing him to direct and _cling_ to the animal with his knees, a long lance with a blunted tip sitting in his other hand.

(And the answer to _can frogs buck?_ is _yes, yes they can_.)

At least Pidge wouldn’t laugh at him…probably.

Lance plops heavily into his seat between her and Hunk. "Now, before you say anything," he says, plastering a grin onto his face and raising his hands, "I think I lasted longer than Keith."

"That's because you're a masochist and kept climbing back onto your grof after every fall," Keith deadpans.

Pidge smiles at him. "You did pretty well. It was fun watching."

A wonderfully familiar warmth fills Lance's chest, and he's not sure if it's her smile or her compliment that does it.

It no longer matters that he fell from his high frog more times than he can count before hundreds of spectators (and that it was displayed on a couple of Jumbo-trons), not when Pidge says something unexpected like _that_.

Hunk frowns. "Really, Pidge? You were clutching his cape like it was a lifeline the entire—"

Pidge reaches over Lance to smack Hunk's arm. "I was _not_ ," she says, though the flush in her cheeks tells a different story.

"Aw, you were worried about me?" Lance teases. When she only glares at him, he smiles and holds out a hand. "Well, I'm back now, so you can give me my cape."

Pidge shrugs and relinquishes the red cape from where it was bundled in her lap. She raises an eyebrow and says, "Honestly, I suspect King Thurar went easier on Keith than he did on you, Lance."

Lance blinks, nearly fumbling the clasp of his cape while he reattaches it to his gorget. It _shocks_ him that she thinks so - that she _agrees_ with his unspoken thought. "Wait, really?" When she doesn't change her mind - when even Keith stares incredulously at her - he laughs and adds, "Of course! King Thurar just couldn't risk me being a natural and unseating _him_ and making him look bad in front of all his royal subjects!"

Pidge rolls her eyes. "Yes, that's exactly why."

The match that began after Lance finished his trial attempt at jousting ends to applause while the announcer says over the speakers, "We now enter the semi-final round! Remember, the winner of the tournament will receive the wreath with which to crown their Queen of Wit and Courage."

Lance can't help the laughter that bursts from him, despite Hunk shooting him a disapproving frown and nodding at Minister Lirnem still seated behind them. "It's almost like we traveled back in time on Earth," he jokes.

"The giant frogs are unexpected," Pidge concedes.

"So tell us, Lance," Hunk says with a snide smile, "who would _you_ crown as this Queen of Wit and Courage?"

Lance, familiar enough with stories - mostly the fun and tragic legendary ones - from Earth's so-called Middle Ages, knows it to be a trick question, yet heat still rushes to his face, his eyes darting towards Pidge.

They meet hers.

"What do you want?" he wonders in a low voice.

The bell rings for the final match of the tournament, and King Thurar himself jumps his grof onto the flooded pitch to wild applause.

Pidge frowns, eyes widening. "To...watch the joust?"

“Barsinians have webbed fingers, Pidge,” Lance informs her. He raises a hand, flexing his fingers. “You didn’t notice when you shook the king’s hand?”

Pidge stares at him uncomprehendingly for a tick - did she _really_ forget a bet she made him mere vargas ago? - before gasping and saying, “Oh they do!” A smirk tugs at her lips as she pronounces, “I want—”

Cheers break out, louder than after any other match. His attention diverted, Lance spins around, watching King Thurar raising his lance in triumph while his unseated opponent kneels in the murky water, his grof crouched beside him.

“And now our king will receive the wreath…”

A hush falls over the pitch as someone in the stands opposite them hangs a tightly woven wreath spotted with delicate white flowers from the end of King Thurar’s lance.

“How important is this?” Allura mutters to Minister Lirnem.

“For a young king still unmarried and without an heir?” Minister Lirnem scoffs. “The answer should be obvious.”

Not that Lance needs her words to confirm anything, not with the tension that fills the stands while King Thurar’s grof leaps a circuit of the pitch.

“I bet he’ll give it to Allura,” Lance attempts to joke, although both Hunk and Minister Lirnem hush him for his trouble.

King Thurar pauses before them, his grof settling with a gentle splash, and extends his lance.

For a heartbeat Lance thinks, to his shock, that his joke proved _right_.

But the wreath lands in Pidge’s lap.

He hears her sharp intake of breath in that brief hesitation before the crowd bursts into applause, before King Thurar’s grof splashes away and over the fence bordering the pitch, before Pidge gingerly picks up the wreath lying where Lance’s cape sat bundled up not so long ago.

Their whole group - including Minister Lirnem - stare incredulously at Pidge, but no one seems as shocked as she.

Her cheeks flush a livid red, all the way to the tips of her ears peeking through her hair, and she turns to Allura and asks, “D-does he expect anything from me for this…gift?”

Allura looks over her shoulder at Minister Lirnem. “ _Does_ he?”

She shrugs and admits, “I may have known the boy his entire life, but even I do not know what goes through his mind much of the time.”

As one, the Paladins of Voltron stare at the wreath clutched in Pidge’s white-knuckled fingers, implications hanging heavily overhead.

Lance’s stomach twists with a hot anger, with _jealousy_ he has no right to, and he fights to keep a scowl from his face.

“Well, look at that, Pidge,” Hunk says faintly. “You got a gift from a lance after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is dumb, Pidge is confused, and Allura thinks everything is going Great!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought last chapter was cheesy...
> 
> You can probably tell from one particular scene that i'm not meant to be a sci fi writer...but anyway enjoy the chapter!! ~~i was gonna wait a couple more days too but i'm Impatient and lack restraint~~
> 
> (and thank you so much to everyone leaving feedback <33)

“Well, no one’s wittier or more courageous than you,” Lance half-grumbles when she asks him what he thinks once they return to the Castle.

“What’s your problem?” Pidge demands. She grips the wreath so tightly in her hand she contemplates trying to snap or tear it in half. Instead she contents herself with setting it on the lounge table before unclasping her cape from her gorget and dropping it in a pile on the couch.

Lance’s eyes pinch shut, and he seems to compose himself before he opens them and smiles. “Nothing,” he says too mildly. “You deserve all the wreaths.”

The telltale wrinkle on Lance’s forehead that indicates he’s not as happy as he’s trying to appear tempts Pidge. She wants to bridge this gap between them and smooth it away, whether with a fingertip pressed to his brow or with her words…only she doesn’t know what words would do the trick.

But she crosses her arms before sighing in resignation and dropping onto the sofa beside him. “You’re getting dirt on the couch,” she observes.

Lance groans and leans back, his head falling on the sofa’s back. “Let me wallow for a little, Pidge.”

“You’re not still grumpy about falling from your grof so many times, are you?” Pidge rests a hand on his shoulder and adds, “You weren’t there to hear it, but Keith said you didn’t seem bad for a beginner.”

“My experience horseback-riding commends me,” Lance replies with a snort, “and Keith was _also_ a beginner…unless grof-back-riding was part of his Blade training.” But he turns to her with a smile more genuine than the last. “How should I know you’re not just making that up to make me feel better?”

Pidge raises an eyebrow. “First of all I _am_ trying to make you feel better,” she says, tactfully ignoring the way his face - closer than she realized when she sat beside him - flushes, “and second, am I _really_ the sort of person to lie just to patch up your bruised ego?”

Lance chuckles. “Guess not.” His head rests against hers, his bristly, mud-crusted bangs tickling her forehead and making it difficult to breathe. “Getting my butt kicked _did_ make me tired though…”

Pidge elbows him and retorts, “Then go to your room to sleep.”

“Why?” Lance covers his mouth to stifle a yawn that Pidge is almost certain is fake. “You’re a pretty good pillow…” His arms wrap around her middle, his body leaning more heavily against hers.

Pidge rolls her eyes but returns his loose embrace, something in her chest fluttering at the contact. “Now you’re going to get dirt on _me_ ,” she complains without much bite.

“Ugh, fine!” Lance stands and stretches, his arms extended over his head and a _real_ yawn splitting his face. “I’m sore,” he says, rubbing his backside. “Hope I can still save a dance for you tomorrow night.” He throws Pidge a wink over his shoulder.

She bites her lip in a pathetic attempt to fight a smile, but she can’t do anything about the blush she’s sure colors her cheeks. “Only if you promise not to trip over the hem of my dress like last time.”

Lance coughs and averts his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was…not my smoothest moment.”

Pidge follows him from the lounge, the weight and excitement of the day beginning to take its toll and leaving her drained of energy. A million and one things to be done, to be considered and contemplated and taken apart…but all she wants to do is sleep.

Or cuddle with Lance, but not when they’re both still wearing their armor and his is still crusted with dried mud.

“And for quiznak’s sake, Lance, take a shower!” She waves a hand under her nose and smirks when his eyes widen in offense. “You smell like a swamp.”

Lance laughs, whipping his red cape around like an old-time Spanish matador. “Hey, you never know in a place like here; maybe the ladies _like_ swamp stink.”

* * *

The gifts don’t end with the wreath of white flowers, and Pidge isn’t sure she likes being the prettiest girl in the room (so to speak).

She’s not so naive that she doesn’t recognize male attention when she’s subjected to it - although she’s rarely been on the receiving end of it, much less from the _one_ person she’d welcome it from - but traveling to a diverse array of worlds has taught her that there’s one cultural constant among races with some kind of gender dimorphism:

The men declare their intent of courtship by showering the object of their romantic affection with _gifts_.

“I’ve barely said two words to him!” she exclaims when Coran shows her the box and relays the message from the courier.

“It still seems His Majesty is quite taken with you, Number Five,” he says, a broad grin under his bushy mustache. He peeks under the sizable box’s lid, and a low, appreciative whistle escapes his lips. “If I’m not mistaken, this gown is the _height_ of Barsinian fashion.”

Pidge’s eyes widen, shock gripping her. “He sent me a _dress_?”

Coran clutches the box to his chest - as if it was a gift delivered to _him_ , which Pidge would be all too happy to allow - and _giggles_. “Oh, he did, _and_ he asks that you permit him to escort you to the ball at Tolemac Castle.”

“W—”

“ _What?_ ” Lance stomps into the lounge, barely pausing for the sliding doors to open fully and with his jacket flapping around him. He halts a meter away from Pidge, his body turned towards her in a way that strikes her as distinctly…protective.

She doesn’t understand why when the most dangerous thing about a dress is risking tripping over the hem while climbing stairs.

(Unless her hypothesis that Barsinians embroider their clothes with some kind of circuitry for aesthetic purposes proves correct; then all bets are off.)

Pidge sighs, Lance’s reaction rankling her, and asks Coran, “Why does he want to _escort_ me to the ball? Wasn’t the plan that we’d all go together?”

“Yes, well, it seems plans can be changed,” Coran points out. He taps his fingers against the box’s lid and adds, “Apparently the crowned woman is usually the winner’s wife, but in the event that she’s merely someone who has caught the winner’s interest—”

Lance muttered, “What the quiznak?”

“—the courier mentioned that it’s customary for them to attend the celebratory ball together.”

Pidge’s jaw drops as heat fills her; to hear it so _blatantly_ …

An odd thrill hits her, and a smile pushes at her lips. It’s nice to be noticed sometimes, although she still has no idea _why_. And King Thurar seems intelligent, young, handsome even if in a rather inhuman way; why not accept his invitation and make the most of it, pick his brain on his scientists’ rumored near-instantaneous travel technology?

But she can’t help a sideways glance at Lance, can’t help wishing _he_ noticed her instead, can’t help the heaviness of disappointment and even a little - and _totally_ unnecessary - shame that twist in her gut.

The door slides open to admit Hunk and Keith, both in varying degrees of dress for the ball. “Why aren’t you guys getting ready yet?” Keith wonders, looking between Pidge and Lance.

“You’re one to talk,” Pidge deadpans. Her eyes narrow at the massive cowlick sticking up on the back of his head and the wrinkles in his black belted tunic.

Hunk laughs and smooths a hand over the back of Keith’s head. “We’ve still got time,” he says, “and I wouldn’t doubt Lance has already taken care of his more time-consuming prep.”

Lance stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and shrugs. “I did a face mask.”

“See?” Hunk raises an eyebrow at Pidge. “What about you? I thought Allura convinced you to try a little makeup this time after you bought eyeshadow to go with that dress you found.”

“ _You_ bought makeup?” Lance says, turning incredulous eyes onto Pidge.

But she ignores him. She sighs, nodding towards the box Coran still holds, and confesses, “King Thurar sent me a dress, so I guess I’ll be wearing that one instead.” She crosses her arms and scowls at her feet. “I was really looking forward to wearing what I brought from Earth…”

“Oh?” Hunk grins, a spark of glee that Pidge doesn’t trust in his eyes. “King Thurar sent you a dress? So soon after bestowing a wreath upon his _Queen_ of Wit and Courage?”

When Keith mirrors Hunk’s smirk, she knows what’s coming.

Hunk takes Keith’s hand with a delicate grip and bows over it. “Enchante, Mademoiselle Green Paladin,” he says, going so far as to kiss his knuckles. “You look positively ravishing in that dress I sent you.”

To Pidge’s shock, Keith plays along, covering his face with a mockingly bashful hand and _giggling_. “Oh, you are too kind, Your Majesty.”

“Would you do me the honor of this dance?” Hunk wonders with a grin while he rests a hand on Keith’s waist.

Keith’s hand falls on Hunk’s shoulder. “It would be _my_ honor, Your Majesty.”

“… _and_ becoming my bride?”

Pidge bursts into laughter, despite her warm face and mounting embarrassment, while Coran mutters, “I don’t understand; since when is Hunk royalty and since when is he courting Keith?”

Lance grumbles something too low for Pidge to catch, and she has no idea why _he_ looks so put-out when their friends aren’t teasing _him_.

Her mirth vanishes as soon as Keith’s reply leaves his mouth:

“Why, Your Majesty,” Keith says with a suggestive smirk tossed at Pidge, “I cannot marry you, for my heart beats for—”

“Keith, your Pidge is out of character,” Lance cuts in with a scowl. “She’s never that polite.”

Pidge’s heart races while she wrings the hem of her sweater and pointedly avoids looking at Lance. And despite his comment - she can’t help a flicker of irritation - relief at his timely interruption fills her.

She inhales as she accepts the gift box from Coran and rolls her eyes at Hunk and Keith. “Hey, if it gets us teleportation, I’ll marry this king in a heartbeat,” she jokes.

Lance’s jaw drops before it shuts with a click of teeth. “W-what? We don’t need him for teleportation!” He points at Keith. “We have Kosmo!”

Pidge frowns and says, “It’s a joke, Lance. I’d rather marry y—never mind.” She turns her feet to the exit, her face hot and her eyes wide, shocked at what she almost let slip from her tongue. “I-I should go get ready; if I have a king escorting me I should probably look my best…”

* * *

“I look ridiculous.”

Pidge holds her arms out, staring at her billowing, voluminous sleeves. The cuffs trail well past her fingers and fall almost to the floor, the fabric ballooning along her upper arm and cinched just past the elbow. Delicate thread - circuitry that lights brighter with every step she takes, kinetic energy converted into electricity - nearly _covers_ ever spare bit of fabric, embroidering a pattern Pidge can’t glean because it’s so _busy_.

And that’s only the start.

Her reflection dims, although she suspects that after a few dances her dress will light up like a quiznaking Christmas tree.

“You don’t look ridiculous, Pidge!” Allura reassures her with a hand on her puffed up shoulder. “You look…unique.” She shoots Pidge her diplomatic smile, the one just sincere enough to fool her into thinking she means it.

Allura is a vision in a pink and blue floor-length dress that leaves her arms bare except for silver bangles that ring together and collect at her wrists. It’s more daring - in Allura’s rather prim estimation - than what she usually prefers, but she claims Barsina’s humidity is getting to her.

Pidge suspects it’s also immodest according to Barsinian standards - she has yet to see anyone, male or female, with even their ankles or wrists exposed - but at the moment she’s too busy longing for the dress collecting dust in her closet.

And thanks to this monstrosity’s high collar, she can’t even wear the necklace with the Rover-shaped charm Lance bought her for her last birthday.

(Instead she loops it around her wrist, her long sleeves concealing it.)

Her hair proves to be less than a dilemma than she thought, Allura helping her pin it up into a tasteful bun and leaving a few loose strands to ring her face. Pidge then props the wreath from the tournament atop her head and attaches the bizarre streamer-like headdress, stabbing the hair stick through the bun and letting the glittering green fabric flow loosely behind her.

This, at least, isn’t so long she’ll trip over it…but there’s no guarantee she won’t _sit_ on it.

If she can sit at all with all the ridiculous layers in this dress, she realizes as horror grips her and her feet stuffed into too-small flats ache preemptively.

“Why can’t I wear my _own_ dress?” Pidge grumbles not for the first time.

Allura sighs while she picks at a few layers of fabric, adjusting the way they drape over Pidge’s frame. A ruffle neatened here, a bow tightened there…

Pidge flails her arms, the long, trailing sleeves flapping with them. “How am I even going to use the _bathroom_ in this dress without suffering an ordeal?” Her fingers clutch at the layered pleated skirt and lift the too-long hem off the floor. “With all this I can’t even reach my underwear!”

Allura snorts, an amused smile flitting across her face. “Well, it would be an insult not to wear a gift from His Majesty.”

“Just like it would’ve been an insult if we didn’t all come?” Pidge pushes her glasses up her nose - she refuses to take those off on principle - and scowls at her reflection and considers that at least watching her dress light up the dance floor might be entertaining.

“Exactly!” Allura confirms brightly. “Although…Pidge, you’re not the most… _diplomatic_ of us.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow, a part of her unsurprised at the direction this conversation took. “So I’ll take care not to step on his toes if he asks me to dance?” Not that she _wants_ to dance with him; she’d sooner ask Keith to spin her around, convince Coran to lead her in a mind-bogglingly energetic Altean two-step, team up with Hunk to pinpoint Barsinian scientists and learn from their drunken wisdom…

Laugh with Lance while he drags her into his people-watching, blush when he lets slip a sincere compliment for her, sneak away with him to stargaze from a turret while a slow tune below lulls her into a doze…

“That’s a good start,” Allura allows, jerking Pidge from a vivid and embarrassing daydream, “but there’s a little more to it than that. Start by befriending him, or rather letting him befriend you.”

Pidge wrinkles her nose. “I don’t have to let him _court_ me, do I?”

“Of course not!” Allura quickly denies, before backtracking and admitting, “Well, not really. Maybe a little? Just enough to be polite but not enough to make him think you’re romantically inclined towards him.”

Pidge deflates, but it’s difficult to tell she’s slouching with the puffy balloons that encompass her shoulders. “That sounds really…not doable.”

“It’s a rather fine line, to be sure,” Allura concedes with a grimace. But she brightens, clasping her hands, and says, “Just pretend you’re me when Lance was a bit more…insufferable.”

Pidge snorts, half-amused and half-irritated by the reminder. “So you’re saying you want me to…express as little interest in possible?”

“Oh, no, _please_ be interested in what he says!” Allura tells her. “Just don’t be interested in _him_.”

Pidge stares at her, no less confused about her intent than when they first broached the topic, but shrugs and says, “Okay…I’m a genius”—though not with people—”so how hard can it really be?”

* * *

Pidge _literally_ glows on the arm of the king of Barsina.

Threads of colored light line the most bizarre dress Lance has ever laid eyes on, illuminating her in a rainbow. She stares down at herself more than at her escort, and he recognizes the fascination in her wide-eyed gaze.

And her lack of interest in King Thurar soothes the jealousy sitting hotly in his stomach, though it fails to recede entirely.

Not until Pidge parts from King Thurar and makes a beeline for where he stands with Keith and Hunk.

“Nice dress,” Keith comments dryly.

Pidge rolls her eyes at him but mumbles her thanks when Hunk passes her a drink. She pushes the streamer falling over her shoulder away from her face and sips. “What have you been up to?”

“Hunk danced with Minister Lirnem,” Keith offers with a snicker.

“She’s a very spry dancer for her age,” Hunk says diplomatically.

Lance leans against their table and raises an eyebrow at him before flashing a smirk at Pidge. “She took him for a spin when she figured out he didn’t know any Barsinian dances.”

Pidge laughs and rests a consoling hand on Hunk’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says. “Barsinian dancing seems very…”

Lance’s gaze roves over the couples and groups milling about on the dance floor in time with a bouncy, syncopated beat. Their motions are jerky rather than smooth, and he observes, “It looks kind of like how you’d expect a frog dancing to look.”

Pidge laughs, Keith’s eyes widen, and Hunk exclaims, “What if someone hears you and thinks you insulted them?”

“Please”—Lance snorts even as an uneasiness settles into him and his eyes dart around the busy ballroom—”they call frogs ‘ _grofs_ ’ here, so they won’t think that.”

“But everyone’s dressed so…shiny.” Keith nods towards a couple of young Barsinian nobles taking a picture together with a sleek device, its bulb flashing in the ballroom’s low light.

Barsinian clothes seems to have _wires_ embroidered into them, wires that glow when—

“As far as I can tell, there’s something in the fabric that converts kinetic energy into electricity to ignite the circuitry,” Pidge explains without prompting. She picks at a wire glowing pink in the fitted bodice of her dress. “It’s a really interesting effect and _use_ for circuitry but it doesn’t seem to serve any purpose beside the aesthetic.”

“Makes you shine like a star though,” Lance lets slip without thought. When Hunk’s and Keith’s stunned eyes land on him, his cheeks burn with heat and he adds, “Y-you and everyone—”

“The circuitry is a symbol.” Minister Lirnem joins them without announcing herself, a glass clutched in her webbed fingers and her own modest gown glowing a faint blue - though not with quite so much embroidery as Pidge’s. “It is a mark of status: the more intricate the embroidery, the more colors your clothes display, the higher your rank at court.” Her slitted eyes scan Pidge from head to toe. “Aliens are not generally permitted our symbolic embroidery, however, so I can only suspect what His Majesty’s plans are concerning you, Green Paladin.”

Lance’s blood runs cold at some implication in Minister Lirnem’s voice. “What do you mean?” he wonders, his feet carrying him a few steps closer to Pidge.

“It is not for a loyal subject of His Majesty to divulge what are only educated guesses,” Minister Lirnem recites. She sips her drink and tells Pidge, “Watch yourself around him, Green Paladin. He may be king, but he is still only barely of age and subject to the same impetuousness as any other youth.” Her gaze flicks to Lance, a slight smile on her lips, before gliding away from them in a very un-frog-like manner.

“Pidge,” Lance says carefully as he watches her go, “what do _you_ think the king—”

But Pidge doesn’t seem to notice his words, not while she rolls up her very long sleeves so that it bunches up just over her wrists. “Quiznak, those are _annoying_ ,” she grumbles, pushing hair away from her face.

Light glints off gold, and Lance says, “Hey, are you wearing the necklace I got you as a _bracelet_?”

Pidge jumps, startled, and color fills her cheeks. She raises her wrist, her eyes widened as if shocked to find a gold chain wound around it, and admits, “It doesn’t go with this dress but I still wanted to wear it.”

“O-oh.” Lance rubs the back of his neck, suddenly awkward when he realizes that Hunk and Keith made themselves scarce without him noticing.

But Pidge seems unbothered as she slides the necklace off her wrist and says, “You know what? I don’t care if it doesn’t match.” She holds it out to him.

Lance extends an arm and watches it pool in his palm. “Wait, you’re not giving it back, are you?” Something like panic grips him - he remembers how brightly Pidge smiled when he gave it to her, how she told him he shouldn’t have and that she loved it all in the same breath, his chest warm and his face warmer after she flung her arms around his neck.

“N-no!” Pidge quickly reassures him. “I just…need your help putting it on.” She pushes her trailing headdress over her shoulder and turns her back to him.

A smile pushes at his lips as he loops it around her neck and clasps it in place. When she faces him again, she touches the glittering green charm that somehow looks brighter than all the ignited circuitry woven into her dress.

She takes his breath away without trying, simply standing there in a gaudy gown with a smile on her face and a light flush high in her cheeks.

Without a word and without a falter in her grin, Pidge’s fingers wrap around his wrist. He happily follows, his heart pounding a syncopated beat alongside a tune that manages to be half-jazz and half-baroque.

They don’t bother keeping time as they slip into their own little dance, Pidge’s hands holding tightly to his, their arms swinging like two kids dancing at a wedding.

When Lance spins her around, the hem of her skirt lifts and billows around her, and she steps back towards him laughing. “This more fun than jousting from a grof?” she wonders.

“Dancing with you is more fun than almost anything else I can think of,” he tells her…another sentiment so honest he has to wonder if the punch he’s been drinking has an intoxicant in it after all.

Pidge raises an eyebrow, managing to look smug despite her blush. “ _Almost_?”

“Well…playing _Killbot_ with you is a contender,” Lance admits, “even when you’re kicking my butt.”

She snorts and smirks. “I know of something you’re better than me at.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Jousting.”

Lance blinks, his fingers tightening around hers. “Why do you say that?”

“You want to do something…daring?” Pidge says, mischief sparking in her eyes. “The joust did look like fun the other day—”

“I lost count of the number of times I fell off my quiznaking grof!” Lance retorts.

“—and I kind of want to try now. And you can give me a few pointers!” She grins right before it falters. “I’d have to change first though…can’t really ride a grof in this glow-in-the-dark circus tent I’m wearing.”

“You do look…interesting in that dress,” Lance says, “but still beautiful.”

Pidge laughs, rolling her eyes. “I know I look silly,” she says, “even if Coran is convinced it’s the height of fashion here.” She tosses her head, the streamer hanging from her bun and from that quiznaking wreath fluttering around her shoulders.

Lance meets her warm brown eyes, his heart skipping a beat. “Pidge, you’d look beautiful wearing a plastic black trash bag.”

And she would; nothing can obscure the spark in her gaze or the warmth in her smile or the heat of her touch on his skin and his _heart_.

Her eyes widen, the blush in her cheeks spreading, and she stutters, “Lance, y-you don’t look too—”

“May I cut in?”

 _No,_ Lance only just keeps himself from snapping. He forces his reflexively annoyed expression into something more neutral while he and a wide-eyed Pidge face King Thurar.

He looks at Pidge, a hesitant smile on his thin frog-like mouth, a webbed hand extended in invitation towards her. “What sort of escort would I be if I did not insist on one dance?”

Pidge clears her throat and smiles. “Sure,” she says simply. “I would like that.” But her grin falters when her eyes meet Lance’s. “Are you okay with that, Lance?”

His mouth dries at her question, at a hidden subtext that he’s not sure she means. Because no, he’s not _okay_ with it at all, with this prospective Coalition leader putting the moves on a girl who _Lance_ has feelings for.

(Again.)

He shrugs and feigns a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, not with jealousy writhing in his stomach and his chest tightening as he reluctantly lets Pidge go. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Lance tells her.

Pidge frowns, gaze drifting down as she mutters, “I guess not…” To King Thurar, she says in a far brighter voice, “Lead the way. I don’t know your dances…”

She takes the king’s hand, and Lance watches them walk away, his feet frozen to the floor while Pidge’s dress - shining brighter than when she first entered the ballroom - trails behind them.

He notes with some satisfaction that King Thurar is shorter than him, the top of Pidge’s head - minus her deflating bun and the streamer hanging from it - reaching his flat nose…but his childish glee at that disappears as he realizes it puts them closer to eye level with each other.

Lance finds distraction in chatting up strangers, both other aliens and Barsinians. He lets a _probably_ middle-aged Barsinian lady teach him to dance in their style, but when her webbed fingers pinch his backside in a way he’s _pretty_ sure isn’t one of the steps, he takes his leave of her.

“You look like you’re having fun,” Keith observes when Lance joins him and Hunk on a well-cultivated terrace. Vines laden with fleshy leaves grow along Tolemac Castle’s walls, the green dotted with a rainbow of flowers. And below the terrace in a sprawling and swampy garden is a pond illuminated by a light that changes color and makes the water glow.

It’s pretty, but he can’t appreciate it with his heart heavy and a gloomy cloud hanging over his head.

Lance leans against the railing, affording himself a good view of most of the ballroom. “I’m having a blast.” His gaze rovers over the dancers and other attendees, searching for just one, but—

He straightens, eyes widening and heart skipping a beat in alarm. “Where’s Pidge?” he wonders in as idle a voice as he can manage.

Hunk’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “We saw her leaving the ballroom with the king. Why?” He smirks and says, “You jealous?”

“No!” Lance crosses his arms and scowls at the floor even as his foot taps an impatient beat against the shining tile floor, urging him into some kind of action.

Pidge missing with King Thurar? The same king that gave her a crown and sent her a dress and asked her to dance?

Well…if Pidge went willingly, who’s Lance to stand in the way?

But it’s also the same king who was all too happy to knock him - and Keith - from the back of a grof more than once…

Mind made up, Lance stalks back towards the ballroom and announces, “I’m going to explore the castle.”

* * *

The entire time Pidge dances with King Thurar, her mind analyzes every word out of Lance’s mouth. _Beautiful,_ he called her, despite her ludicrous dress evoking Las Vegas.

All she managed to _try_ to say in return was, _You don_ _’t look too bad yourself_. Never mind that the red and blue Altean tunic he wears makes his shoulders look broader and the sleeves are tight enough she can see the definition in his arms and—

She can’t help sneaking glances at him while she half-listens to the king explaining his culture and, for some reason, the structure of Barsina’s government, can’t help the irritation pricking her when she spots him dancing with someone else.

Well, she can’t keep him from enjoying himself! Especially not after he showed barely any hesitation when King Thurar interrupted them.

It still hurts when a pathetic part of her wishes Lance is _jealous_.

But she follows Allura’s advice as best as she can, pretending Barsinian civics interests her and answering what few questions King Thurar asks her about herself.

After the second dance, when Pidge wants nothing more than to slip away and find her friends, he comments, “Your necklace is…pretty.”

Pidge’s eyes widen in surprise - she almost forgot she wore any jewelry - as she grasps the pendant sitting over her collarbone. “Thank you,” she says. “It was a gift.”

“It’s not one I sent with the dress,” King Thurar says.

She bites back a sarcastic response and instead contents herself with a nod. “A friend gave it to me.”

The king frowns. “The Red Paladin?” he guesses. “The one you were dancing with?”

An absurd blush warms Pidge’s cheeks, the necklace’s chain smooth and cool against her fingertips and a silly smile fighting its way onto her face. “Yes, that’s him.”

But her smile falters as soon as the words leave her mouth when she remembers how… _apathetic_ Lance seemed when she left.

King Thurar doesn’t reply immediately, instead steering her towards the main section of Tolemac Castle. And the longer the silence stretches, filled only by the fading music playing behind them and the chattering of other guests, the longer Pidge worries she said something wrong.

It wasn’t like she _lied_!

Her heart races with panic, mind buzzing with concerns that she doomed Voltron’s prospects with Barsina and doomed _her_ opportunity to examine what technology they conceal under a veil of mystery and rumors.

Sure, the methods they engineer structures in a marsh are interesting enough, but they won’t help the Coalition.

“You have a reputation among the Coalition, Green Paladin,” King Thurar says, finally breaking the silence as they step into a green-carpeted and well-lit hallway.

Pidge only smiles, unsure how to respond. Of course she does? She’s a quiznaking Paladin of Voltron and a bright mind!

Or she can try…reciprocating?

Pidge hopes her voice doesn’t crack when she says, “Barsina has a reputation too, Your Majesty. I can’t count the number of rumors I’ve heard that your scientists are on the brink of inventing near-instantaneous travel.”

Doors line the walls every few paces, and as they wander deeper, panels flare into life beside them. Security panels, Pidge guesses; whatever lies behind those doors is not for anyone to access.

“ _My_ scientists?” King Thurar chuckles as he pauses before such a door and presses all five fingers to the security panel. “They helped, of course, but much of the work is my own.”

The panel flashes green, scanning whatever passes for fingerprints on a Barsinian hand (for all Pidge knows it’s their webbing that’s “unique” in individuals), before the heavy steel door unlocks with a click.

Thurar enters a code into a keypad underneath the glowing panel. He smiles sheepishly when another lock clicks open and says, “The process to simply unlock the door to my lab is rather…lengthy.”

Pidge smiles without trying, clutching at her dress with sweaty hands and her heartbeat skipping in excitement. “I get it.”

The door swings open after a few more layers of security - including a retinal scan on _her_ to ascertain she’s not a shapeshifting alien - and King Thurar stands aside and gestures her in. “We do not have the same intuition with technology as the people of Olkarion, but Barsina is accomplished and I dare to think you, Green Paladin, will appreciate that more than your less scientifically minded fellow Paladins.”

Pidge wonders if she imagines the insult in his voice - _even Hunk?_ \- but the laboratory beyond the door makes every retort she can think of fall away, forgotten.

Lasers and monitors, long-distance communication arrays, _robots_ operating all the machinery taking measurements of atmospheric readings and signals arriving from space, and—

“Why have I not seen any robots anywhere else?” Pidge asks.

King Thurar follows her into the lab, the door shutting behind him and locking with a few clicks, and appraises the space. He crosses his arms and explains, “Robotics is a field that the less scientifically inclined fear - Barsinians are a superstitious folk - and robots are so poorly understood and the average Barsinian fears that one can one day replace him.”

Pidge barely hears him, a cylinder lying horizontal to the floor catching her attention. “Is that a _particle accelerator_?” she blurts. She picks up the hem of her skirt and darts in its direction, eyes wide as she examines every centimeter of it that she can reach. “Where do you hold the magnets?”

The king eyes her with obvious amusement as he points them out.

“What do you use this for? This seems like a very…multidisciplinary lab.” Pidge raises an eyebrow as she gazes around the room.

“Well…we _are_ searching for a way to travel across the universe almost instantaneously without using something as unstable as a wormhole.”

Air catches in her lungs, and she breathes, “And?”

When King Thurar smiles widest, he looks more like a frog than a human, but it doesn’t unnerve her. Pidge all but trembles with excitement as he leads her in a different direction, towards a low doorway tucked into a corner.

He ducks through it, Pidge on his heels, and into a more cavernous room empty of equipment except for a long cylindrical metal object lined with slits for aeration, a monitor at one end with text scrawling across it.

“This is the prototype for our improbability engine.”

Pidge turns sharply towards the king. “Your…?”

“Alternative to a wormhole,” he confirms with a nod. “We are attempting to scale it up as this one is only large enough for a small pod - we tested it over a distance of a few light-years almost a phoeb ago - but I fear that without input from Olkari scientists we will not get far.” He sighs and glances at her. “We have not heard from them in a very long time, not since before Emperor Zarkon fell, but—”

“They’re members of the Coalition,” Pidge reassures him, grinning. “They were…occupied by a Galra general for a while, but Voltron liberated them and Olkarion is now the center of the Coalition.”

King Thurar’s slitted eyes widen, the yellow practically glowing with an excited spark. And Pidge, caught up in the excitement of a project, laughs.

She loses track of how much time she spends poring over every journal - the Barsinian script translated into Altean, far more familiar to her, with the wrist computer she wears under her obnoxiously billowing sleeves - and every bit of tech King Thurar allows her access to. But she knows it’s nothing near enough to even _begin_ to scratch the surface of all there is to learn here.

“I could spend my whole life in these labs, tinkering and reading and experimenting, and still not unlock all your secrets!”

King Thurar meets her eyes, and for some reason it sends a shiver down her spine. “Pidge,” he says in a low voice, the use of her name rather than a title freezing her to the spot, “if I may be so familiar, you are an exceptional being.” His fingers chill her skin when he takes her hand, the delicate webbing almost slimy.

“Y-your Majesty,” she says, wincing at her stutter, “you’re very…nice.”

“You are too modest, Pidge,” he tells her.

She smiles, because she’s not sure what else to do with his hand clutching hers and his eyes roving over her face and her skin crawling with discomfort and realization rooting her to the spot. “No one’s ever said that about me,” she says, unsure what else _to_ say.

Quiznak, she assumed King Thurar held some superficial interest in her, between the stupid wreath and the absurd dress, but now it feels too real and too much.

And nothing she wants.

But Pidge doesn’t know how to reject him without risking offending him, not when the Coalition needs an alliance with the planet he rules, especially now that she’s seen what Barsina has to offer with her own eyes.

(Allura didn’t prepare her for _this_.)

Pidge never fears speaking her mind…but she’s no longer naive enough not to understand her words have consequences.

The fact that they’re alone hits her when King Thurar’s thin lips brush her knuckles.

Her heart pounds as she wrenches her fingers from his grip and takes a step back, her hand hovering over the wrist computer hidden under her sleeve. “I-I think I’d like to go back to the ball,” Pidge says as steadily as she can. “I…want to have a bit more fun before we leave.” She forces a grin that feels more like a grimace onto her face. “You understand, Your Majesty, right?”

The king frowns, his eyes narrowing and face flushing green. For a beat Pidge fears he’ll refuse - and if he does she’s not sure she’ll remember the way back without wandering or taking the time to hack Tolemac Castle’s mainframe for the floor plan - but to her relief he sighs and says, “Of course, Green Paladin. Allow me to escort you back.”

* * *

Lance gives up on wandering Tolemac Castle’s halls searching for Pidge and King Thurar when yet another armed guard bars his path down a spiraling set of stairs.

“You hiding Emperor Zarkon in the basement?” he can’t help quipping - the joke at least controls his mounting irritation and concern.

He lost track of how long Pidge and the king have been gone, and with the ball winding down and guests leaving and Keith failing to conceal his yawns and Coran drunkenly sashaying with every elderly Barsinian woman - and at least a few men - that doesn’t mind an inebriated partner, Allura is sure to call it a night within the varga.

But Pidge is still _missing_.

At some point Lance’s fuming jealousy gave way to a worry that makes his mind buzz and his heart race.

It's too easy to picture what happens when two people disappear together during a party, even in an otherwise prim medieval-like society where _jousting_ is a popular spectator sport, and if anyone knows what hiding spots are in a grand castle like this, it'll be the king that calls it home.

But there's no way Pidge is actually interested in _that_ with _him_...right?

Amid his second-guessing, Lance's feet carry him back to the ballroom's wide entrance. But a couple blocks his path, looking in the middle of a moment, when the Barsinian man bends over the woman's hand to kiss it.

Wait...Lance recognizes that dimly glowing monstrosity of a dress.

_Pidge?_

Watching King Thurar kiss Pidge's hand shocks his system, makes his blood run cold and his chest tighten with a too-familiar ache. And because he's too much of a masochist to tear his eyes away, he sees a slight and smug smirk twisting the king's lips.

Pidge wrenches her hand from his grip and walks past him, and if she says anything it's too soft for Lance to hear.

Something in Pidge's stiff demeanor as she leaves - and something in King Thurar's obviously displeased scowl - eases some of the hot jealousy simmering just under Lance's skin.

He has nothing to worry about, does he? Well, not that it's any of _his_ concern, he forces himself to remember.

Lance plasters a polite smile onto his face as he approaches the entrance and King Thurar standing in his path. "Nice party you're throwing," he says mildly.

His icy glare - and frogs are cold-blooded, aren't they? Pidge would know better than him - falls on Lance as he responds, "Only the best for the Paladins of Voltron. Tell P—your Green Paladin that."

Lance raises an eyebrow, confused...and not a little irritated at King Thurar almost using Pidge's name, like he wishes to violate the formality he maintains with them. And he's been around enough diplomatic shindigs to know that any kind of breach in formality isn't usually without an ulterior motive.

He smooths the collar of his tunic and says, "Well, if you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, I'll go do that right now."

He easily locates Pidge standing beside the same table as the rest of their team. Keith's forehead rests against the surface - Lance wonders if he passed out - and Hunk's hand touches his back. Allura sits beside him, maintaining a tight grip on a red-faced Coran.

Pidge speaks animatedly as he approaches, the light in her eyes far brighter than the lights in her dress. The sight - her excitement - warms his heart, especially when he catches her words.

"The rumors are _true_ , Hunk!" she exclaims, her hands flailing. "It's not teleportation - I guess that's still the stuff of cosmic wolves and science fiction - but it _is_ near-instantaneous, and all the Coalition and Barsina need is to forge an alliance so we can share our ideas!"

Allura claps her hands, a gleeful smile alighting her face. "That's wonderful, Pidge! You've done well with His Majesty!"

Lance frowns at that. "What do you mean?"

Pidge spins around, her eyes widening when they land on him. "Lance? Where were you?"

He blinks, startled, while his cheeks burn. "Uh...here and there," he tells her, unwilling to mention that he tried to spy on her with King Thurar.

Hunk's hand raises in greeting, an awful and teasing smirk tugging at his lips. "Pidge has been using her _feminine wiles_ to get information from the king."

"Hunk!" Pidge hisses, a scowl on her face as it darkens.

Lance's stomach twists into unpleasant knots; earlier today she hadn't seemed bothered by Hunk's teasing...

What changed?

"While I would not have said it as Hunk did," Allura says diplomatically, though she rolls her eyes, "Pidge has learned much thanks to His Majesty's interest in her."

"Oh," Lance says lamely. "That's...great."

Pidge fidgets with the pendant dangling from her neck, obviously avoiding his gaze when she says, “Yeah, it’s very helpful.”

“His Majesty seems it,” he retorts, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, not while an image of the king kissing Pidge’s hand replays in his mind. ”Maybe he’ll even give you the designs if you kiss him and turn him back into a prince.”

Lance regrets the words as soon as they fall from his lips.

Allura, for her part, looks confused, but Hunk’s jaw drops in shock. Even Keith, thought dead to the universe, sleepily mumbles, “Lance is being an idiot again isn’t he…”

Pidge’s glare pins him and makes him squirm, shame heavy in his gut at what he implied - about the king, sure, but mostly about _her_.

His eyes bug, and he raises his hands and blurts, “I’m sorry.”

She crosses her arms, her glower not faltering though it falls to the floor. “You should be.”

“Pidge, I—”

“I don’t like him, okay?” she says, her gaze flitting from Hunk and Allura before landing on Lance. “And I don’t _want_ to either. And it’s _not_ my fault he seems to like me.” She presses her fingers into her eyes before adding, “He’s not even close to my first choice…”

Pidge turns on her heel and flees, her skirts rising around her and sleeves streaming in her wake. The dress shines brighter the further she runs, but even that fades once she disappears onto the terrace.

Just like that, Lance is _sure_ something happened between Pidge and King Thurar before he spotted them, and the thought _infuriates_ him.

But guilt that _his_ words incited this roots him to the spot.

He pulls a chair away from the table…or tries to. “What the quiznak?” He peeks under the lacy tablecloth, his eyes narrowing at Keith’s ankles locked around the chair’s legs. “What’s your problem, Keith? Aren’t you supposed to be napping?”

Keith raises a hand - without lifting his head - and points in Pidge’s direction. “Go fix it,” he says, voice muffled. “As the Black Paladin, I command you.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Lance grumbles even while he turns and marches through the emptying dance floor and towards the terrace.

Some part of him fears he won’t find her, that all he’ll come across will be a rope made from scraps of her busy dress tied to the balcony railing and trailing down into the gardens below.

But she stands much in the same place he had earlier, gazing up at the castle’s turrets with red eyes.

Lance swallows his apprehension and says, “Pidge.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she says quickly, easily, more steadily than he expected. She crosses her arms, her eyes slipping past him. “You just…I don’t know.” A heavy sigh escapes her, and she straightens from her slouch.

Lance fights the urge to reach for her, wanting to comfort her through touch as much as through his words.

Words…

He has confirmation that there’s no _reason_ for his jealousy - although he already knew it’s undeserved - so maybe _now_ is the time to tell her, to speak the feelings always brimming under the surface and threatening to spill from his tongue.

It’s not how he pictured a potential confession, with Pidge upset about something he said and no white moon shining overhead and her wearing an outfit Liberace wouldn’t be caught dead (or alive) in, but he knows with creeping certainty it has to be done.

His heart races, but resolve fills him as he admits, “I saw the king kissing your hand.”

Pidge inhales sharply, finally looking at him with wide eyes. “A-and?”

“Did something…happen?” Lance wonders. “Did he do something when you were—”

“N-not exactly, no,” Pidge cuts him off. But she holds herself stiffly and adds, “I just…didn’t like the way he looked at me.”

Lance’s breath catches in his throat, and he reconsiders. Maybe now isn’t the best time after all, maybe he should wait till they’ve left Barsina behind, maybe—

“D-do you like the way _I_ look at you?”

Maybe his mouth has other ideas.

Her breath hitches, arms falling to her sides and eyes widening in shock. “H-how should I… _interpret_ how you look at me?” she challenges, tilting her head back.

Lance steps towards her, and he dares to take her hand.

His heart _sings_ when her fingers tighten around his, when her gaze and how close her flushed face is to his draw him in. Her shallow breath warms his chin, something about it sharpening every last sense, her brown eyes expectant and…hopeful.

He cups her cheek with his other hand and murmurs, “Katie—”

Something falls with a _thunk_ at Lance’s feet, cutting him off. He spins around, reflexively reaching for a bayard he’s not carrying and pushing Pidge behind him even as she does the same.

All he spots is King Thurar, a scowl on his face, and a few members of his court and their team. A wide-eyed Minister Lirnem hovers over his shoulder, but she shoots a glance at Allura, whose gaze locks onto the ground near him.

Lance thinks to look down, confusion filling him at the sight of a gauntlet from a suit of Barsinian armor. “What the—”

King Thurar points at him. “You, Red Paladin, have something I want.”

Lance’s jaw flaps uselessly, and he presses a finger to his chest, scarcely believing what’s happening. “W-what?”

Pidge echoes the sentiment, but her hand grips his, grounding him.

“I lay a formal challenge at your feet before members of my court,” the king announces.

“Ch-challenge for what?” Lance demands. “W-what did I ever do to you?”

King Thurar ignores his question, his eyes slipping past him…towards Pidge. “I challenge you for the Green Paladin’s affections and her un-webbed hand in marriage.”

“What?” Pidge blurts. “You can’t—”

But Lance doesn’t bother thinking, not with a fresh wave of anger making his blood run hot.

“You’re on, _Your Majesty_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN Lance being Stunned at Pidge looking gorgeous in a dress is all well and good but have you ever considered her wearing something so ridiculous that her _beauty_ isn't what stuns him?? anyway i tried looking up medieval fashion (i do research...sometimes) but nothing was Ridiculous enough so i just pictured the most ludicrous and inconvenient getup i could, and that is what Pidge wore (she wore it Best)
> 
> ~~...i need a refund on my sense of humor~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is angry, but only Pidge gets to punch someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case it isn't obvious chapter summaries tend to be afterthoughts for me rather than anything meaningful...but just know that from this point on there's less crack/fun to be had ;_;
> 
> also thank you so much to everyone leaving comments and reblogging this on tumblr and just reading!! i've read all your comments/replies/tags and i appreciate them all <33

“This may be our worst diplomatic crisis to date!” Allura paces back and forth in the lounge aboard the Castle of Lions, hands clasped behind her back and…well, her dress would be swishing agitatedly in her wake if she hadn’t opted to stay in her spacesuit, if negotiations hadn’t come to a shuddering halt.

If Lance simply kept his mouth shut and let King Thurar’s challenge pass unanswered.

(Or maybe if he hadn’t hesitated to kiss Pidge.)

“We can still salvage it, Princess,” Coran reassures her. He stands by with a data pad in hand, likely scrolling through Barsinian legal documents seeking some loophole. “If Pidge marries His Majesty, you’ll breeze through negotiations.”

And with that, Lance decides he’s been silent long enough.

“Pidge isn’t marrying that guy!” he shouts. He bolts off the sofa, hands curling into fists and renewed irritation washing away the guilt. “You heard her last night; she doesn’t even _like_ him!”

“And what are you going to do about it without provoking a _worse_ outcome?” Allura demands, spinning around to face him.

“I—break Pidge out of Tolemac Castle?” Lance suggests. “There’s no way she’s any _safer_ there than she would be here.”

The horror and no small amount of anger flashing over Pidge’s face plays in his mind, an image of King Thurar’s guards, armed with spears with electrified tips, separating them and surrounding her faster than either of them can fight.

Not that they could’ve, not without risking injury to themselves - to Pidge - or worse to their cause.

Placed under house arrest, away from her team - away from Lance - for her so-called _protection_.

Lance hates himself for not putting up more of a stink, for falling only after a few spear butts to the stomach. But his knuckles still sting, every muscle in his hand aching, after he made the mistake of punching someone in full armor.

How can he prove to Pidge he loves her if he can’t even protect her from _that_?

“You’re right, Lance,” Allura concedes with a sigh, “but we won’t resort to that when we might still find a _legal_ way out of this dilemma.”

He forces his fingers to unfurl, to relax despite the tension coiling in his limbs, and asks, “Aren’t you at least _embarrassed_ that a king we’re supposed to be making nice with took one of us prisoner?”

Allura crosses her arms and pins him with a glare that he refuses to quail under. “ _Embarrassed_ is the least of it,” she says. “I’m _furious_.”

“Then why aren’t you doing _more_?” Lance demands, unable to keep the resentment from his tone. “Why is Pidge over _there_ and not here where we need her?”

Allura’s gaze drops, her lip twitching. “Because I’m doing the best I can with the information I have and without risking _worse_ ,” she says.

Shame fills Lance as he lowers his eyes, his heart sinking low into his abdomen and his mouth dry. “I-I’m sorry. Do you think there’s a way to get the king to withdraw his challenge?”

“I doubt it,” Allura tells him, voice thick with regret. “It would not be a sound political move for him and might make Voltron and the Coalition look like we bullied him into it, which I would like to avoid.”

“Why?” Lance wonders, scowling. “I’ll happily bully the same guy who thinks he can kidnap Pidge without answering for it.”

“Oh, believe me, Lance,” Allura says, tone brooking no argument, “His Majesty _will_ answer to it. I would just prefer to use a method that gives us all the best possible outcome. Coran”—she glances in his direction hopefully—”have you found anything?”

“Not quite yet,” Coran says. “It seems challenging an offending party to a duel is a rather old-fashioned - though still legal - method of resolving disputes for there’s little mention of it in recent rulings and statutes.”

Allura pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes shut tight. “Nothing like this ever would’ve happened on Altea…”

“Are you saying dueling was _legal_ on Altea?” Lance asks, incredulous.

“Of course not!” Allura snaps. She drops onto the couch and adds, “It was outlawed during King Groggery’s time.”

“The Infirm?”

“No, the Wise, my same ancestor who made first contact with aliens.” She smiles sadly, perhaps at some remembered lesson in history, and sighs. “Unfortunate Barsina hasn’t done the same.”

The data pad in Coran’s hands chimes. “Well, that’s interesting…”

“What?” Allura leans towards him, eyes wide, and Lance’s muscles fill with fresh tension.

“We have guests,” Coran announces, his brow furrowing. “It’s His Majesty.”

Lance’s eyes widen, his heart pounding and renewed anger gripping him. “What does he want now?” he grumbles.

Coran ignores him in favor of glancing towards Allura. “Shall I…invite them in?”

She stands, smoothing down a skirt she’s not wearing, and flattens her expression into something more neutral. “I suppose we can at least demand an explanation from him. More blame belongs to him than to Lance—”

“Hey, I’m not the one so jealous I threw a _gauntlet_!” Lance retorts, irritation wiping away the guilt.

“No, you’re just the one jealous enough to pick up the gauntlet.” Keith strides into the lounge, the doors sliding shut behind him as he wipes sweat from his brow. Despite the frustration underlying everyone else’s words, he sounds calmer, more neutral.

Maybe Lance ought to take the gladiator for a few practice rounds too.

“Invite them in,” Keith says. He shrugs when Allura turns sharply to him and adds, “The more we know about this duel challenge nonsense, the better prepared we are to deal with it.”

Lance rolls his eyes, Keith’s interference rankling him despite knowing it’s his responsibility as the Black Paladin. “Wise words from someone who’d rather punch his problems in the jaw…”

“And if all goes as the king wants it,” Keith says with a sweeping gesture, “you’ll get that chance too.”

“It’s a duel,” Lance points out, “not a boxing match.”

“We don’t know what a _duel_ here entails,” Keith reminds him. “Two people fighting, but they never told us how.”

“Look at you, explaining the technicalities when that’s usually Pidge’s job.” Lance crosses his arms, his chest tightening, and says, “I guess we should talk to them, especially since Hunk’s not back yet, but don’t think I’m going to be _nice_.”

“I expect you to be polite,” Allura says, raising an eyebrow when he glances her way.

A smirk - the first real hint of mirth he’s felt since they returned to the Castle minus one Pidge, despite the bitter twist to it - tugs at his lips. “Be polite without being nice?” His grin widens. “Easy.”

He still holds himself back from demanding to see Pidge when King Thurar marches into the Castle’s conference room alone except for two armored guards. Smugness colors every bit of his flat frog-like face, and his nasty smirk widens when his yellow eyes meet Lance’s.

Lance freezes his own grin in place but doesn’t bother to conceal its edge.

“No welcome or refreshments?” King Thurar says, his gaze roving around the small conference room. “I heard the Yellow Paladin is quite the cook.”

“You cannot expect us to receive you so kindly as to invite you for a meal,” Allura says coldly, “not when you’ve taken one of our number prisoner.”

“The Green Paladin is not a prisoner,” the king reassures them. He clasps his hands behind his back, appraising each of them in turn. “No more than she was ever yours, Princess.”

Allura stiffens, her eyes slipping shut in a visible effort to compose herself. “And what do you mean by _that_ , Your Majesty?”

King Thurar runs a finger along the table as he rounds it towards where Allura stands between Keith and Coran. Lance tenses warily, uncertain if he poses a threat to them after all.

“I am aware of how you brought your Paladins together, Princess Allura,” he explains, “how they came from a peaceful planet yet to make first contact, how you all but held them hostage and press-ganged them into joining your cause, how—”

Keith snaps, “We stayed willingly!”

Lance’s feet shift in begrudging discomfort, for he doesn’t remember it as Keith must. They never really had a choice - although he can’t blame _Allura_ for that - but Pidge tried to make one anyway.

She almost left, and Lance might’ve _died_ if she had.

He owes so much to her, including the heart beating an unsteady rhythm in his chest.

“Did you?” King Thurar shrugs, not bothered by Keith’s denial. “I suppose it matters not, as it did allow me the opportunity to meet my future queen.”

Anger blots out his despondency, and Lance hisses, “Like quiz—”

Coran’s warning hand on his shoulder cuts him off, but from King Thurar’s widening grin he knows he reacted _just_ as expected.

Quiznak.

“You are all fond of your Green Paladin,” the king observes. “That is understandable, for I am quite taken with her despite only two quintants of acquaintance—”

“Get to your point,” Lance mutters under his breath.

“—but would you risk an opportunity to ally Barsina with Voltron and the Coalition for her?”

“Yes!” Lance says, and screw any _perspective_ or effort to make nice! “She’s not a pawn, she’s a _Paladin_ , and she belongs with us and with her family on Earth, not in this lousy swamp!”

Allura inhales sharply, a slight scowl on her face. “Lance—”

“Forget the quiznaking duel!” Lance steps forward, bruised fist raised and fury making his blood run hot, heart pumping him full of adrenaline. “I’ll fight you right now if you let go of Pidge _today_!”

Coran drags him backwards and wraps a very pointed arm around his shoulders, patting his arm and mumbling, “We’ll handle this; don’t worry.”

“Why so plainspoken, Your Majesty?” Allura asks with a glower that would chill Lance if it fell on him.

“I wish to inform you where you and Voltron stand, Princess,” he says pleasantly even as his slitted eyes narrow. “I will even explain the rules of engagement for a duel so that the Red Paladin does not find himself unprepared for ours.”

“And if we refuse?” Allura wonders. “If we demand Pidge’s release and we insist _you_ manipulated Lance into accepting your challenge?”

“Do you wish to alienate us?” King Thurar says. “An ally lost is one thing, an enemy gained quite another, and while I do not doubt my people cannot stand against the might of Voltron, what does a war between mine and yours tell those not yet within the Coalition’s fold?”

“What’re the rules of your duel?” Keith presses before Allura or Lance can retort. “If we know that, maybe we can decide our next move.” He glances at Allura, who nods in approval, and Lance forces himself to relax and his glare to soften.

“It will be on the grounds of Tolemac Castle in three quintants’ time,” King Thurar explains.

“The ground won’t be flooded, will it?” Lance asks.

“It will not,” he grants. “We will not fight from atop grofs.”

“What a relief,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

King Thurar continues as if he didn’t hear him, “During that time, the Green Paladin will reside at Tolemac Castle and neither you nor I, competitors for her affection, are permitted to see her.”

Lance crosses his arms, the irritation itching his skin growing more difficult to contain. “Why do I get the feeling that’s one rule you won’t follow?” he hisses.

He ignores him again, much to his rising frustration, and says, “The rest of you are allowed to visit her one at a time.”

Allura deflates, a smile curving her lips, and says, “That is…one good thing then.”

“And what about the actual duel?” Keith says.

“We each fight with a weapon of our own make to first blood—”

“Ah, I feared it would be to the death like the duels on Altea of old,” Coran says with a sage nod.

“—and the victor wins the Green Paladin.”

The wording rankles Lance so much that he’d happily attack King Thurar, never mind the two imposing guards hovering over him, if Coran’s hold on him doesn’t tighten.

But he can’t keep himself from snapping, “You don’t deserve her if you think you can talk about her like that!”

Does _Lance_ deserve her after what he said to her at the end of the ball, after losing his nerve and not telling her how he feels?

He pushes away any trace of self-doubt he has. This isn’t about him but about freeing _Pidge_.

King Thurar smirks and says, “The duel will decide who deserves her, Red Paladin. I look forward to meeting you in three quintants.”

They watch him go, Allura leaving to escort him from the Castle of Lions, before Coran withdraws his arm from Lance and reexamines his data pad.

Lance collapses into a chair and drops his forehead against the table as some - but not all - of the fight leaves him. He attempts a half-hearted joke, “Maybe we should build a horse…”

To his surprise, _Keith_ understands, falling into the seat across from him and wondering, “How would that work if we’re already _on_ Barsina? And wouldn’t it have to be a grof instead?”

Lance laughs, throwing his head back while something in his chest loosens. “Guess you’ve got a point.”

Coran stares between the two of them as if they both transformed into grofs. “What the quiznak are you talking about?”

Keith chuckles and says, “It’s something from an Earth poem.”

Coran rolls his eyes but brandishes his data pad. “Well, I’ve something interesting here!” He turns the screen so that they can see it, Keith’s eyes scanning the text - Lance recognizes a line of Altean probably translated from the far less familiar to him Barsinian script - while Lance does his best to…

“This is legalese,” he complains, gesturing at it. “I can barely read _regular_ Altean!”

“Apparently if the challenged party is disabled, they can appoint someone to fight in their stead, but”—Coran eyes Lance up and down—”that will scarcely help us here.”

Keith tosses his knife between his hands and wonders, “What if an outside party harms him in some way?”

Lance’s head whips around, gaze sharp on him. “Dude, you are _not_ ‘disabling’ me!”

“Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier if _I_ could fight on your behalf?”

“Yeah, but…” Lance swallows, zipping and unzipping his jacket as he finds some way to explain. “I have to do this myself, Keith. No one else will be good enough, but it’s not because I’m super talented at fighting. It’s that it’s _Pidge_ , and that frog king made this personal.” He scowls at the table, frustrated that King Thurar made him all but impotent in the time between now and the duel.

Keith meets his eyes and nods, and Lance reads some understanding there. “It’s not…practical,” Keith points out, “but I guess if you win, it won’t be so bad.”

“Not _if_ ,” Lance says with more confidence than he feels. “ _When_ I win, it won’t matter, and Hunk will thank me because I know he secretly likes frog legs.”

(And Pidge might thank him too…if she doesn’t blame him for dragging her into this mess.)

Keith snorts in amusement, but a grimace twists his mouth. “That’s disgusting.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

The door slides open, Hunk bursting through with Allura just behind him.

Lance jumps to his feet, his hands pressed to the table’s surface, and leans across it towards him with his heart skipping a beat. “Did you get to talk to—”

“Not yet,” Hunk admits with a sigh. “When I tried to go see her, the guards told me the king hadn’t permitted visitors—”

“That _liar_.”

“— _yet_ ,” Hunk continues, pointedly glancing at Lance, “but I did see Minister Lirnem, and she gave me - or you really - some advice.”

Lance waves his arms and says, “Lay it on me; I’ll take anything I can get even if it comes from one of frog king’s advisers.”

“Actually, Lance, I think she means well,” Hunk admits. He presses his hands together and doesn’t quite meet his eyes, which is how Lance knows he won’t like what he has to say.

“Just spit it out, Hunk.”

“Don’t forfeit.”

Lance’s jaw drops as his temper flares. He exclaims in offense, “I won’t—I wasn’t going to _forfeit_! If I do, that means _he_ wins no matter what!”

“Glad you understand that,” Hunk says with obviously feigned brevity, “but it gets worse. Allura…”

“Yes?” At the sound of her name, she crosses her arms and raises a wary eyebrow.

“Minister Lirnem thought it would be tempting to Lance to forfeit—”

“Not even a little!”

“—which is when I told her she doesn’t know him at all, especially not where Pidge is concerned—”

Heat rushes to Lance’s face but he doesn’t bother arguing Hunk’s very correct point.

“—but she insisted I know what happens if he does.”

Lance rolls his eyes, his chest tightening with hurt as he grumbles, “It’s like you guys have no faith in me.”

“We do!” Allura quickly reassures him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“Speak for yourself,” Keith mutters.

Lance only spares him a glare, Allura’s next words catching his attention:

“It’s just that we need to know all of our options, and if there’s _any_ way we can avoid this absurd duel for Pidge’s _hand in marriage_ , we need to know them. So Hunk”—she turns to him, her gaze sharp and insistent—”what did Minister Lirnem tell you?”

“It’s not just Pidge we lose if he forfeits,” Hunk announces. “At the same time Lance kisses her goodbye, the Coalitions kisses Barsina and near-instantaneous space travel goodbye too.”

* * *

The apartment afforded her by King Thurar holds every luxury Pidge can possibly want: running water and soaps scented like the sweetest swamp flowers, a meal if she simply touches a panel in the wall and sends a message to the royal chef, clothes of the highest fashion (and far more practical than the monstrosity she wore - _still_ wears - to the ball), a data pad loaded with novels and scientific journals translated into Altean for ease of perusal, even a holographic monitor receiving Barsinian entertainment in the forms of sports and serials and a _social media_ feed.

Pidge prefers a dark and barren Galra cell for a prison.

A quiznaking _balcony_ juts out of the Castle, giving her a view of the intricate maze of marshy gardens below, and Pidge suspects the only reason the carved wooden door leading out isn’t locked is because her _prison_ is five stories high.

Unless she finds a secret passageway hidden behind a bookshelf or manages to hack the security panel programmed into the door _and_ kill the surveillance cameras undoubtedly lining the hallway beyond with no equipment at her disposal, the five-story balcony is the key to her escape.

Maybe if she busts the machinery operating the projection or wedges open the communication panel to reach its inner workings she can engineer a quick fix - and likely have to override a security protocol in the process which would take _time_ she doesn’t have with guards posted outside her door - but without her wrist computer there’s little guarantee she’ll have the correct hardware…

One of the guards that arrested her searched every inch of her atrocious dress and confiscated her wrist computer, the _one_ thing she had on her that would be _awfully_ useful in escape.

At least they let her keep Matt’s glasses and the necklace Lance gave her.

Lance…what was he _thinking_ accepting King Thurar’s challenge without so much as asking _her_?

And what was he thinking before _that_? What right does he have to defend her like this - to be _jealous_ , if that’s what he is - when she doesn’t even know how he feels for her?

Her breath catches and her face warms just remembering that heartbeat when Pidge was sure he would kiss her, when she recalls his tone as he said, _“D-do you like the way_ I _look at you?_ _”_

How does Lance look at her? She never really considered it before, never thought much of his soft eyes besides noticing how they made warmth bloom in her chest and that she…likes having them on her.

But they stand on the precipice of… _something_ between them - quiznak, he swore to duel someone demanding to _marry_ her! - and it’s suddenly crucial to acquire all the facts she can.

Fact the first: King Thurar fancies her. (What can Pidge possibly have that a _king_ wants? She has almost no social grace and she _hates_ politics because _politics_ is what dragged her into this mess!)

Fact the second: King Thurar thinks she and Lance are…involved somehow. (What gave him that idea? Sure, Pidge danced with him at the ball, but she’d gladly dance with Keith or Hunk.)

Fact the third: Pidge doesn’t like King Thurar. (What makes him think a stupid duel will change that? If anything, it makes her like him far less.)

Fact the fourth: Pidge loves Lance. (Will she ever tell him? Does his acceptance of the challenge mean he feels the same, or did he just pick up the gauntlet out of a platonic sense of loyalty to his teammate?)

Pidge plops onto the too-soft, too-large bed and buries her face in her hands, muffling a groan. Her voluminous skirts billow up around her, the glow of the circuitry embroidered into the fabric fading the longer she doesn’t move. Her fingers wrap around the emerald Rover pendant hanging from her neck, the cool gold of the chain calming for her unsteady heartbeat.

(Arrhythmia is the _last_ thing she needs right now.)

Trapped in a tower, Pidge can only wonder what her teammates are up to. She tries flipping through the settings - channels? - on the projected screen, but she finds no source of news and comes to the conclusion that it’s not _cable_ so much as a streaming service.

She paces the length of the large room, mind buzzing with worry at how long she’s been left alone and so distracted by the memories playing out in her brain that she nearly trips over the hem of her dress at least once each pass.

Lance’s fingers wrapping around hers, soft words and softer eyes as his face drifted closer, Pidge forcing her eyes to stay open, to take it all in lest she blink and wake from a dream…

The gauntlet thrown to the ground.

From there it was a blur of guards manhandling her while she fruitlessly struggled without a bayard, of Allura’s protests and Lance’s angry shouts while another few guards hold him back, of Minister Lirnem accompanying her and promising to do what she could while Pidge fought the sudden flow of furious tears.

She hasn’t seen anyone since Minister Lirnem left, hasn’t slept more than a brief exhausted doze collapsed against the door or eaten anything despite the suspicious breakfast - fit for a frog - delivered via dumbwaiter.

But she washed the tear stains from her face and ripped the wreath of white flowers from her hair to neaten her flattened bun. Even that little bit of effort to compose herself invigorated her and set the gears turning and working towards escape.

Naturally the door refused to budge.

It swings open on silent hinges, a figure in a shining doublet stepping through and shocking Pidge from her musing.

“Y-you!” Pidge jabs a finger at King Thurar. Her back stiffens, fingers clenching into fists at her side, but before she can do more than gaze past him, the door shuts with a series of clicks behind him.

The smile on his face sends a startling jolt of hatred through her, her stomach turning at the sight. She marches up to him and demands, “Let me go!”

“I am afraid I cannot.” King Thurar clasps his webbed hands behind his back, his smile turning indulgent. “You must be confined for your protection so that my competitor cannot kidnap you before the duel is seen through.”

Pidge’s eyes widen incredulously. “ _Kidnap_ me?” She snorts and says, “Lance would never hurt me or force me to go anywhere I don’t want to, unlike you, Your Majesty. And I’d _happily_ run off with him if it means getting away from _you_.”

“And lose the opportunity to study my improbability engine?” King Thurar frowns, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Right now,” Pidge says, inhaling in a conscious effort to control herself, “the most improbable thing about this situation is me developing positive feelings for _you_.”

The first hint of displeasure touches his face in the form of a slight scowl. “Then allow me to explain the situation to you, Green Paladin:

“You will be confined to your rooms until the morning of the duel, and during that time _he_ will not be permitted to visit you.”

Pidge flinches, her breath catching and chest tightening, but snaps, “And what’s stopping me from going to see _him_?”

“The door behind me unlocks only to my biometrics and those of Minister Lirnem and the captain of Tolemac Castle’s guards; if you make it as far as the hallway, surveillance cameras and armored guards line it the entire way for this _is_ the royal wing and we _do_ take our security quite seriously. And a fall from the balcony would be quite debilitating and a waste of your impressive faculties, I think.”

Pidge doesn’t wince, doesn’t allow herself to react to him hammering home every bit of despair he can and telling her what she already deduced for herself. “Oh, is that all?” she bites, tone dripping irony.

King Thurar grins and promises, “You will have the run of all of Barsina once you are my queen.”

“What if I don’t want to be your queen?” Pidge hisses.

He spreads his arms wide and says, “You are free to go if your Red Paladin defeats me when we duel in three quintants’ time.” He chuckles, the sound unpleasant and sending a shiver up Pidge’s spine, and adds, “He was quite angry on your behalf when I paid them a visit; I just hope his croak is not worse than his hop.”

Pidge glares at him, sweaty hands bunching in her skirt. She wants to wipe the frog-like smirk off his wide face.

So she does.

Her fist - the left hook Shiro helped her refine - connects with his jaw with a satisfying _squish_ and snap.

Pidge has her share of regrets, but socking a king isn’t on the list, not even when he straightens and pierces her with a cold, dead-eyed stare.

It’s the angriest she’s seen him, she realizes with a chill, and disaster or not, this is still a diplomatic mission for the Coalition.

But King Thurar composes himself, his eyes closing before he opens them again and says, “I hope in time you will see how much I admire you - how much it is _you_ I want ruling by my side, though you are an alien - and that you will _want_ to stay.” He smiles and adds, “I do not think it is too much to hope you will come to love me rather than him, but make no mistake.”

He steps towards her, and it takes all Pidge’s mental fortitude not to step back. Her heart races with a renewed fear; she’d take him kissing her hand one _trillion_ times if it means she can leave Barsina - leave _him_ \- and never return, the improbability engine be quiznaked.

King Thurar trails a cool fingertip down the bridge of her nose and murmurs, “I will do whatever it takes to make you mine.”

The tension oozes from her shoulders when he turns his back to her, a shuddering breath escaping her. But anger floods her with strength, and she grabs the first thing her fingers touch and _flings_ it at King Thurar with a wordless shout.

But the wreath with which he crowned her collides with the shut and locked door, raining flower petals as the dried stems break apart…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith threatens, Lance begs, Hunk gossips, and Pidge ties a few knots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...here there be pop culture references and names used as verbs
> 
> ~~this is a crack fic masquerading as angst~~
> 
> also there's now [art of Pidge's dress](https://numbah34.tumblr.com/post/180818635988/behold-the-obnoxiously-monstrous-spectacle-of-a) in Chapter Two done by the wonderful [numbah34](https://numbah34.tumblr.com/)!! go have a laugh...you may need it after this chapter ;_;

Lance knows his teammates’ - and his own - nervous habits, the little tics they display while anxious or worried.

Pidge tends to ramble, her words less guarded than usual, and throw herself into a task, and from how often he’s taken her hands to calm her he knows firsthand how damp with sweat her palms get.

Lance jokes without bothering to read the room, his humor gloomier the longer the tension persists, and seeks distraction in the form of entertainment or a nap; Keith fiddles with his knife and walks a razor’s edge of tension; Coran messes with his mustache and launches into stories of his childhood on Altea or of his adventures with King Alfor; Hunk tinkers with anything he can get his hands on or else isn’t so shy he won’t rant about what’s bothering him.

Allura paces almost manically, feet scuffing over carpet or tile, muttering incomprehensibly under her breath.

At least until Minister Lirnem emerges from the study and informs them, “His Majesty refuses to negotiate the terms of an alliance with the Voltron Coalition until after the duel.”

“ _Refuses_ to negotiate?” Allura’s lips twist into a scowl.

So much for her diplomatic game face.

When Minister Lirnem only clasps her webbed hands together and nods, Allura retorts, “That— _man_ invited _us_ here! We have done _everything_ thus far on _his_ terms, even _allowing him to imprison our Green Paladin_ —”

“I assure you she is quite comfortable,” Minister Lirnem says.

“Which is beside the point!” Allura nearly screeches, sounding much like Lance feels. She smacks a hand to her face, and with her so frustrated Hunk chooses then to intervene.

He wraps an arm around Allura’s shoulders and tells Minister Lirnem, “Thank you for all your help, Minister. If you can advise us how to continue…?”

“Wait till after the duel,” she replies with a frown. Her eyes flit to Lance, and she adds, “And make sure he is prepared for it if he wants to see his love again.”

Lance’s jaw drops, heat rushing to his face. “She isn’t my—the jerk king was wrong about—”

“Wrong about you being willing to fight for her?” Minister Lirnem scoffs. “If he sees it, so can I. I may be old, but my eyesight is better than his.”

Lance nods, because he isn’t sure what else he can do with his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and his chest tightening with renewed heartache.

Is Pidge’s freedom really in his hands? It still seems unreal, this whole diplomatic dilemma crazier the more he thinks about it, and all because a jealous king thinks Lance and Pidge are together.

Quiznak, he _wishes_ he could be so lucky.

(He should’ve told her sooner.)

“I will even give you permission to train on Tolemac Castle’s grounds.” She reaches into her cloak for a data pad and adjusts something on the screen. “I downloaded a map of the grounds to your Castle of Lions so you will not require a guide with you, I hope.”

“Thank you, Minister,” Allura says with a polite nod.

Her elbow digs into Lance’s side, and he jumps and says, “Yes, thank you.”

Minister Lirnem smiles fleetingly and retreats into the study, leaving Lance, Allura, and Hunk alone in the hall.

“I suppose we will be returning to the Castle of Lions,” Allura announces with a sigh, her eyes downcast. “Perhaps Coran will have some good news to share with us.”

* * *

Coran has no good news to share with them.

“The last legal duel Barsina witnessed was between two members of the court almost a century ago,” he reads from his data pad as the rest of the team sits at the dining table. “They fought over an especially fertile strip of marsh and a draining mill as their neighboring landowner had just passed away without leaving any heirs.”

“How does this help us?” Keith wonders.

“Well…the challenger was a young man trained in arms,” Coran informs them, “and his opponent was an elderly scientist retired after a lifetime spent working in Queen Armagon’s royal laboratories.” He lowers the data pad and meets Lance’s eyes. “The queen herself did not accept his petition to allow another to fight in his stead, as he was not so old to be considered disabled, and between his age and his lack of expertise in weapons - either forging them or wielding them - he lost the duel within doboshes.”

Lance swallows, fingers gripping the hem of his jacket. “So…?”

“No one here - least of all King Thurar - will forgive you for your shortcomings.”

“In other words, I should _definitely_ train ahead of the duel?” Lance crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, lifting off its front legs. “I was planning to anyway,” he says, waving a dismissive hand and pretending his stomach doesn’t already roil with nerves. “I’ve got this in the bag, guys! I’m fighting a _king_ ”—his chair drops to the floor and a shock travels through his body—”and he’s got guards looking after him. Why would he bother to keep in shape? How hard can it be to beat him?”

“For one,” Hunk says with a tone of voice Lance _really_ doesn’t appreciate, “you don’t even have a weapon of ‘your own make’, so how are you planning to build one in just two quintants?”

“I—quiznak, I forgot about that.” His heart sinks, that hope that steadily kindled in him faltering. He buries his face in his hands and mumbles, “I’m not a technological genius like _His Royal Majesty_ , so I’m screwed.”

Distantly he hears Allura asking Hunk and Coran if they can help him “engineer” a solution from scratch, but except for a rifle, Lance is…unpracticed in weapons, at best.

He can’t even fight with a sword - not that he’s been able to summon it since the first time.

It hits Lance less like a mental light bulb flickering on and more like a floodlight blinding him. He picks his head up, a wild hope rising within him again, and blurts, “Do you think my bayard counts?”

The room falls silent as everyone spins around to stare at him, Keith’s jaw dropping comically while Coran thumbs his mustache. Lance sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs, not bothered by the scrutiny so much as its intent. “What?” he grumbles, scowling. “I have good ideas sometimes.”

“It’s not that,” Hunk tells him, his own eyes wide. “Using your bayard just seems so…obvious.”

“Why didn’t anyone else think of that?” Keith wonders. “If Lance thought of it first, then is it even a _good_ idea?”

Lance crosses his arms and glares, annoyed. “I’m not that dumb!”

Hunk rests his hands on his and Keith’s shoulder. “Yeah, without Pidge here,” he says with a wide smirk, “he’s the fifth smartest in the room.”

Lance’s fist connects with the table as frustration crawls under his skin, everyone - but Keith, quiznak him - flinching. “Can we, maybe, get back to the problem at hand since Pidge is _not_ in the room and making me the _sixth_ smartest person here? Please?”

“Yes, of course!” Allura says. She clasps her hands on the table and says, “So the bayard counts since it taps into its wielder’s unique quintessence to morph into a weapon that perfectly suits their abilities, and for Lance that is a sw—rifle!” Her tone pitches higher, an awkward smile on her face when Lance rapidly shakes his head at her.

Hunk glances between them with an eyebrow raised. “What’s a sw-rifle?”

Lance, despite the embarrassed heat rising to his face, ignores him. He leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, and smirks. “So if I bring a rifle to the duel, then I can just Indiana Jones it!”

“What if it’s a Hamilton versus Burr sort of duel and you’ll both get guns?” Hunk wonders.

“Hunk, buddy, we haven’t seen a _single_ blaster since we got here,” Lance points out. “Just lances”—and getting hit with one of those isn’t as bad as falling off a jumping grof—”a couple swords, and those spears with the nasty sparking tips.” He winces and rubs his still-bruised ribs, remembering a blow, though not electrified, from one.

Allura stares at them, looking utterly bewildered, and Coran raises his hand. “Yes, I have a couple of questions.” He presses his fingertips together and frowns. “What is an _Indiana Jones_?”

“And what are a Hamilton and Burr?” Allura adds.

Keith muffles a snicker with his hand, and Lance can’t help his own smile.

Hunk explains, “Hamilton versus Burr is a famous gun duel from Earth when they were still…technically illegal, actually.”

“And Indiana Jones is a movie character famous for shooting a guy that attempted to fight him with a sword.” Lance raises his hands, miming shooting a gun, but his grin falters when Allura’s and Coran’s eyes widen in horror. “It’s not honorable, but it’s…practical?”

“No, it’s horrible,” Allura echoes. “That’s horribly mismatched.”

“It wasn’t a formal duel!” Hunk quickly mentions.

“And all’s fair in love and war,” Keith says almost darkly, “and either Lance or the king will get hurt anyway if the duel’s to first blood.”

A chill shoots through Lance at Keith’s words. He opens and closes his hands, staring at his open palm, the idea that he has to harm someone his team wants to make nice with really hitting him.

Any trace of guilt at that vanishes in a heartbeat when Lance remembers the king’s guards dragging Pidge away, remembers her defiance and fear and how he touched her face mere doboshes before.

Lance _refuses_ to make nice with a man that made an enemy of him.

“Ah, well,” Coran cuts into his angry musing, “there is a _slight_ issue with this…practical _Indiana Jones_ method you mentioned.”

He stiffens, wary, and says, “What?”

Coran taps the screen of his data pad and admits, “No ranged weapons are permitted in duels. At best, a short spear is allowed, but traditionally duelists fight with swords.”

Lance’s forehead connects with the table’s surface as he groans.

“What _does_ happen if Lance gets hurt before the duel?” Keith wonders.

He shoots upright and prods a finger in his direction. “Again, you are not—”

“I’m just saying we need to know all our options,” Keith retorts, eyes flicking to Coran. “So…?”

“If you can prove the injury wasn’t intentional, the duel is postponed. If not, the injured party must forfeit.”

Keith props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Has anyone ever killed one of the duelists before the appointment?” he asks.

Lance gapes at him. “If you kill me—”

His foot connects with his shin under the table, _hard_.

He winces but takes the hint and keeps his mouth shut.

“Yes, there was a case two centuries ago,” Coran says, scanning whatever legal documents he has in his hands, “where two men claimed the same baby was their daughter since they both had…relations with the mother.”

“Sounds…delightful.”

“Oh, the whole incident seems to have been adapted into a very popular soap opera!” Coran grins as he scrolls through the account on his data pad. “Why, it was the big break of an actor who was known as far as the Harlopian Sector! He played one of the men—”

“Coran, please get to the point,” Allura says with a strained smile.

“Oh, of course, Princess,” Coran says with an unrepentant grin. “The challenged party killed his challenger, so he won by default.”

“How does a dead person win a duel?” Lance demands.

“Well, he became the legal father of the baby girl, so it’s really a technicality more than anything.” Coran smooths his mustache with two fingers and sighs. “I suppose that historical case wasn’t as helpful as I thought it would be.”

“So…new plan,” Keith says. “We provoke King Thurar into killing Lance so that Pidge doesn’t have to marry either of them.”

“Dude!”

Keith shrugs. “It’s an idea,” he says.

“It’s a terrible one!” Lance retorts with a scowl.

“You’d die for Pidge if you had to,” Keith points out, and Lance can’t refute him, not with his heart jumping into his throat. “Any of us would, but—”

“Pidge would never forgive him if he did,” Hunk cuts in, “so if she’s not going to be miserable for the rest of her life, we’ll _definitely_ be keeping Lance alive.”

Allura clears her throat, disrupting an argument before it can flare up, and says, “We’ll keep it in mind if the alternative doesn’t work, so, Lance”—she pins him with a gaze that makes him squirm—”where the quiznak will you get a sword?”

Lance doubts he’s imagining her pointed tone, not with the way her eyebrow rises and how something anxious churns in his stomach. He swallows and mumbles, “I…have one…kind of…”

“Why didn’t you say that _before_?” Keith wonders with a sweeping gesture.

“Since _when_?” Hunk says, his jaw dropping.

Lance presses his palms to the table, frowning at the spaces between his spread fingers. “I’ve only gotten it once,” he admits, “while I was on the training deck.”

“Really?” His eyes flick up at Allura’s surprise. “You’ve only summoned it _once_?”

Lance nods, and Keith quips, “I think we need to bond as teammates more often…”

“So…I don’t know how to use one properly even if I can summon it again,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his chair.

“Then Keith can teach you,” Hunk suggests brightly. His elbow connects with Keith’s arm, making him jump, and when he spins around to stare at him, he smiles and adds, “Hey, why can’t the last right arm of Voltron give the current one a few pointers?”

Keith doesn’t hesitate to say, “No.”

Lance’s heart grows heavy with a fresh knot of dread. “Why not?”

“Because two quintants - one and a half quintants - isn’t _nearly_ enough time to learn what you need to know to beat someone who’s probably been at it his entire life,” Keith explains testily. He pushes his chair away from the table and stands, feet already pointing him towards the door before he continues, “And I don’t have the patience for teaching, so ask Allura. Quiznak, ask Minister Lirnem if she knows anyone who can teach you.”

“But—”

“Coran, see if you can help Lance build something like one of those spears,” Keith says. “He’d probably be able to pick up something like that quicker.” He leaves the room, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he goes.

Lance, with a solution that, while not perfect, so close but just out of reach, jumps out of his seat and follows. He runs down the hall after Keith until he catches up to him outside his room.

He doubles over and gasps for breath, lungs burning after his sprint, and holds up a hand at Keith’s questioning glance. “B-before you write me off as a lost cause again—”

“That’s not what I meant, Lance,” Keith says. “I just don’t know _how_ to teach.”

“Just tell me how to hold a sword or correct my stance,” Lance says. “That’s literally it!”

“It’s not.” He crosses his arms and grumbles, “There’s more to it than that.”

“See?” Lance’s arms flail. “I’m ignorant! This is why I need your”—he swallows and pushes aside his pride—”help.” When Keith still hesitates, he tries, “Come _on_ , Keith! You offered to fight on my behalf, so how is this any different?”

“Fighting on someone’s behalf is a lot easier than teaching a novice,” he replies.

“You trained Kosmo to fetch.”

“That took me two years!”

“So you have the patience for it,” Lance says with a snide smirk.

Keith smacks his forehead in obvious frustration. “It’s easier to be patient with him than it is with you.”

Lance flinches, the jab striking harder than Keith must mean it judging by his widening eyes, but he forces a smile he doesn’t quite feel - can’t really with Pidge’s absence and her very freedom hanging in the balance - and says, “Fine, maybe I deserve that, but won’t you at least try for Pidge?”

One, two, three heartbeats pass with Lance holding his breath before Keith gives him a shallow nod. But the genuine grin barely pushes at his lips when he says, “All right, but if you lose the duel, I want my money back.”

Lance’s smile widens and he claps Keith on the shoulder. “ _When_ I win, I’ll pay my tuition with cash gifts from Pidge’s and my wedding.”

Keith snickers, poking his hot cheek - did Lance really say that aloud? - and commenting, “One bridge at a time.”

* * *

Pidge plots her escape from luxury with the most basic of tools: a blunt knife taken from her half-consumed breakfast tray, her many-layered ball gown, and the skills she learned at the Girl Scout meetings her mother forced her to attend for almost five years.

She cuts out the circuitry embroidered into the gown lest they glow and give her position away, and with the knife - and her teeth when the knife is infuriatingly not sharp enough - she tears the dress into shreds. She ties the pieces of fabric into a makeshift rope, each knot done up as tightly as she can to better its cohesiveness.

“This is a high-quality textile,” Pidge muses, tugging on it. “Finally you prove not to be a pain in my ruggle.” A smirk pushes at her lips, the tensile strength of each individual strip of fabric impressive. So long as her knots hold and her grip is steady - and not too sweaty, although the fabric absorbs water - she won’t fall five stories.

But she still needs some way to ensure she won’t be spotted while descending from the balcony to the gardens below.

She walks onto the balcony, a small semicircle built from the same stone as the rest of Tolemac Castle. The gardens are stunning, walkways lined with tall hedges and bridges crossing over streams choking with aquatic plants. Members of the royal court wander the gardens in couples and small groups while multiple gardeners prune growth and clean streams of debris and royal guards patrol with their spears in hand.

As beautiful and crowded as they are during daylight, more Barsinians flock to them at night when the air cools to enjoy the colorful display of lights and plants and insects that glow with bio luminescence, so if Pidge escapes, it must be before sunset.

And she must return before sunset, before the captain of the guard checks that she’s still the king’s prisoner.

 _If_ she returns at all…

One thing at a time, Pidge tells herself. She runs a hand along the railing while she searches for somewhere to tie the end of her homemade rope.

A chime from inside jolts her from her thoughts, and she sprints back inside, shutting the balcony door behind her. Her heart pounds as she shoves the rope under the bed before going to the communication panel and accepting the call.

When a guard announces over the comm that she has a visitor, hope that it’s Lance outside fills her, until she remembers King Thurar _forbidding_ it. Her heart sinks, but a wide grin steals over her face when the guard says:

“It is the Yellow Paladin.”

The door unlocks with a series of clicks, and when it swings open Hunk walks in with an irritated frown on his face. He straightens his crooked vest and shakes his fist at the guard standing behind him. "At least buy me dinner first," he grumbles as the door closes and locks.

Pidge flings her arms around his neck, laughing in relief that she _finally_ sees a friendly face. Hunk returns her embrace, his grip tight and familiar, and asks, "I hope they're feeding you well."

Pidge steps away and gestures at her tray on the floor under the dumbwaiter. "I'd rather take the green food goo than that...pureed fly guts."

"Fly guts are basically pureed already," Hunk points out.

Pidge stares at him. "And flies are full of protein," she deadpans, "but I'd still prefer a rib-eye steak."

Hunk chuckles. "Right, well, I worried they'd feed you the same stuff they eat, so I'm glad they didn't confiscate the snacks in here." He shrugs off a loaded backpack and passes it to her.

Pidge accepts it, confused, but when she opens it a couple sets of her own clothes from her bedroom aboard the Castle spill out. "Hunk, thank you!" An absurd lump lodges itself in her throat as an overwhelming and shocking wave of relief washes over her.

It's been less than two quintants, but by quiznak she misses her teammates, her _friends_ , and it took one visiting her to realize how much.

She wishes Lance could visit her too, wishes it with an intensity that makes her chest ache, but for now she'll happily accept Hunk and any of the others.

At least now she can change into pants rather than this Barsinian dress - blessedly far simpler and with less glowing embroidery than the ball gown - prior to her escape.

"But look how much you've grown!" Hunk exclaims with his hands clasped together. "Just yesterday you were infiltrating the Garrison disguised as a boy, and now you're getting _married_!"

Pidge scowls and wonders if she might've been better off with no visitors at all. "That's not funny."

"You're right, you're right," Hunk agrees, nodding. He crosses his arms and raises a pointed eyebrow. "I'm sure you're family would want to be at the wed—"

"Shut up, Hunk." Pidge's fingers tighten on the backpack's shoulder straps. "You'd better not tell them."

Because quiznak, what _would_ her family think? Her father would be excited about the improbability engine until he realized what cost she paid, her brother would wonder if she'd finally hatched a plan to make Lance jealous, and her mother—

She didn't even _want_ to know what her mother would say.

Hunk raises his hands defensively and promises, "As long as we get out of this mess, they won't hear it from me."

Pidge sags, a sigh escaping her, and says, "Thanks." She drops the backpack on the floor and perches on the edge of the bed. " _Is_ there a plan to get out of this mess?"

"Lance fighting in the duel is the plan," Hunk says simply.

Pidge's eyes narrow at her bare feet. "What the quiznak was he thinking accepting the king's stupid challenge?"

"My hypothesis is that he _wasn't_ ," Hunk admits. "Either that, or he's jealous." He taps his chin, seeming to reconsider, and adds, "Actually it's probably both."

Pidge buries her face in her hands and resists the urge to scream into them. "Well, he _really_ shouldn't have." But despite her irritation with Lance, her chest warms.

Quiznak, he really can be an idiot sometimes.

"He has nothing to be jealous of," she mumbles.

Hunk rests a hand on her shoulder. "I know that," he says, "and honestly I wouldn't be surprised if everyone on the Castle - except maybe Allura, unless the mice found out too - knows that, but Lance—"

"He should've asked me first."

"Asked you what?"

Pidge gestures around the room, her heart pounding with rising irritation all over again. "About the stupid quiznaking duel! It's bad enough some guy I barely know thinks he can show me his improbability engine—"

"I really hope that's not actually an innuendo..."

"—and stick me in a fancy suite so that I'll fall in love with him, but _Lance_ should know better!"

Hunk's eyes narrow. "You know, I thought you would've liked Lance's attention on you like _that_." He smiles a little too smugly for Pidge's liking. "Lance jealous over you like you've been jealous over him."

Heat rushes to her face as her lips twist into a scowl. "Fine, maybe," she confesses, "but this is taking it way too far."

"I mean, unless you _want_ to be a queen after all?" Hunk wonders snidely.

Pidge throws up her hands and snaps, "Oh, thanks for asking, Hunk, because no one else cares enough to wonder what I think about some king I just met and my best friend who I've had a quiznaking _crush_ on for years fighting over me!"

Hunk's jaw drops, but he recovers and backtracks, "Of course we—wait, I'm not your best friend?"

Pidge rolls her eyes, but his offense is so absurd that a laugh bursts out of her.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hunk tells her, “Keith offered to stab Lance more than once.”

Pidge snorts. “I’ll think about it.”

“Would you rather he stab the king?” Hunk wonders, nudging her arm. “You can’t marry a dead man.”

“We’re on an alien planet,” Pidge points out. “We don’t know all their customs.”

“That is…a good point and I should ask Minister Lirnem about that.” Hunk sighs and pats her back. “Pidge, I know you want to be mad at Lance right now, but…he’s worried about you and angrier than I’ve ever seen him.”

Pidge pulls her feet onto the bed and wraps her arms around her legs, burying her nose between her knees. “I-I know,” she admits. She sniffs, her chest aching with the pain of separation.

Hunk’s hugs are warm, but she wants Lance’s arms around her.

“On the bright side,” Hunk says, “if Lance dies before the duel, he wins and you won’t have to marry King Thurar.”

“If that goofball dies,” Pidge grumbles, “I’ll find a way to resurrect him just so I can kill him again myself.”

Hunk grimaces and tells her, “You’ll have to get in line. Allura’s not happy with all this either.”

“Right…” She sighs and says, “I guess diplomacy isn’t helpful.”

“Yeah, if Allura wasn’t so determined to get us all out of here without any kind of political damage, we would’ve stormed the castle and gotten you out, and Lance would’ve led the way.”

“So my only hope is Lance winning?”

“Yeah,” Hunk confirms, “but Keith’s training him on Tolemac Castle’s grounds, so he won’t be totally unprepared for the duel.”

Pidge’s gut twists with apprehension, but she glances up in surprise. “Not the training deck?”

“Minister Lirnem gave us permission for him to prepare here,” Hunk explains, “and Keith thinks that this way Lance gets familiar with the terrain.”

“Why would the _terrain_ be a problem?” Pidge wonders.

“The grounds are kind of marshy, Pidge,” he points out, “and this is where the duel’s happening.”

“That is a…good point,” she concedes. But Hunk’s information supplies her mind with a distraction, an objective to her escape besides just, well, _escaping_.

Her hands fist in the blanket she sits on, itching for the MacGyver-ed rope hidden under the bed.

Pidge’s skin vibrates with impatience, and as Hunk updates on her on everyone else’s news - somehow Coran enjoying the research on historical duels the _least_ surprising, especially next to the shock that’s Lance threatening to punch King Thurar - she barely listens.

When he stands to leave, he wonders, “Any messages you want me to pass along?” He raises an eyebrow and adds, “Perhaps to a particular—”

“No,” Pidge says.

“You don’t even want me to tell him he’s an idiot?”

Pidge smiles without meaning to, but now every time she thinks of Lance it’s accompanied by, at best, a flicker of irritation. She crosses her arms, scuffing her bare feet on the soft carpet, and says, “Just tell him I…trust him, even if what he did is stupid.”

“You got it.” Hunk hugs her, and after a quick call to the guard outside, the door opens, and Pidge is alone again.

She wastes no time putting on shoes and changing into a pair of pants and an over-sized t-shirt that she belatedly realizes is Lance’s - did his stuff somehow get mixed up with hers or is Hunk trying to mess with her? - and grabbing her rope out from under the bed. On the balcony, she ties the end to the railing close to the castle’s walls, where shadows and the growth of climbing vines can conceal her.

Pidge drops the rope over the edge, watching it unfurl and trail down until the tip brushes the springy ground - that will nevertheless _hurt_ should she fall five stories - below. She tugs on it, testing and hoping the knot will hold her weight, and clambers over the railing.

With her fingers wound tight around fabric, Pidge slides off the balcony.

Her stomach rises as she falls, heart jumping into her throat and breath catching. But her hands are firm on the rope and no breeze blows, so the lifeline sways only through her own momentum.

Pidge swings and plants her feet against the castle wall. Step by step - stuttering heartbeat by stuttering heartbeat - she rappels down, hidden by shadows that deepen as the sun sinks lower than its zenith.

She’s running out of time if she wants to return by sunset.

She doesn’t breathe until her feet touch down.

The ground isn’t soft like she expects, but here at the heart of Tolemac Castle they drain the marsh more stringently. But the further away from the structure itself Pidge walks, the deeper her feet sink into the ground, mud staining her sneakers and water soaking through.

Pidge ducks around corners, around potentially unfriendly Barsinians and guards alike, as she wanders the gardens in search of…something. Flickering signs lie in her path, but the only thing she understands from them is the directions towards which the arrows point. She picks one arrow at random, committing the location - written in Barsinian script - to memory, and follows its path.

His voice reaches her, sending a shock through her system before she even sees his face.

Pidge creeps closer to the training pitch, following the sound of swords and the familiar cadence of Keith’s voice raised in impatience:

“…too loose. You need to fix your posture.”

“Great, you sound like my piano teacher,” Lance retorts; she can picture him rolling his eyes…

Pidge peeks out of the high reeds that ring the wide, round pitch, eyes widening at the sight before her.

Lance holds a broadsword in both hands, dull metal glinting in the sun. He stands stiffly, feet spaced a shoulder’s width, facing Pidge’s hiding place with Keith between them, his back to Pidge.

The sight of the sword confuses her; she bites her lip, a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue, starting with _why a sword?_

And perhaps continuing with _where is his armor?_

His shirt sticks to his chest with sweat, face red with effort or embarrassment (since at first glance this little training session doesn’t seem to be going well) and his hair poking up in all directions.

It paints a picture that makes Pidge’s own face warm, and the only thing she doesn’t like about it is the fact that Lance isn’t _smiling_.

Barsinian guards patrol around, curious - or critical - gazes falling on the pitch. Pidge’s skin prickles, wary of being spotted, and she sinks deeper into the reeds, letting the jagged tips scrape her cheeks and stick in her shirt.

“Do you get the feeling they’re spying on us?” Lance wonders.

“If they are,” Keith says in a tone thick with irritation, “the king will have nothing to worry about because you need a _lot_ of improvement.”

“Gee, thanks,” Lance retorts. “I’m glad I have such a supportive teacher.”

Pidge’s lips twist into a scowl, unable to help her own annoyance with Keith even as her stomach churns with anxiety for the coming duel.

“Fine, if you think you’ve got the posture down”—Keith summons his bayard—”attack me.”

Lance flashes a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t have to ask me twice.” He rushes forward, sword swinging up.

Keith doesn’t even bother with his bayard; his foot hooks behind Lance’s knee, sending him sprawling in the mud and his blunted sword flying from his hands.

Pidge winces in sympathy, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. If Lance struggles so much with a sword, why not pick a different weapon?

Keith dismisses his bayard and crosses his arms, appraising Lance with a thoughtful frown as he stumbles to his feet and shakes mud off his legs.

“This is disgusting,” Lance complains. He picks at his fingernails. “I’m going to have to wash my hands for a varga to get all this dirt—”

“Would you _focus_?” Keith cuts him off.

“—out. And yes, I’m focused.” He raises his sword, his grip - as far as Pidge can tell - steady and a determined cast to his eyes as he mutters, “I’m doing this for Pidge. I have to be ready for Pidge…”

Something in her chest flutters, everything from his words to his stance and his gaze striking a chord in her and filling her with an affection she associates only with him. It makes her want to burst from her hiding place, want to tackle him into a hug and tell him she loves him and demand _why_.

Why did he never speak about her like that _before_?

(Unless she never paid enough attention…)

But the doubt hitting her gives her pause, her frustration with him returning in full force. Coupled with her wariness at the armored guards on patrol, Pidge keeps to her hiding spot, watching Keith train Lance with growing trepidation.

“Why don’t you try summoning your bayard as the Altean broadsword again?” Keith suggests. “You might have an easier time with a weapon perfectly suited for you.”

Shock freezes Pidge, but her lips form the words, _Altean broadsword?_ She stares out through the reeds, tense and needing answers.

Lance tosses his formless bayard between his hands, and the smile he flashes Keith has a nervous edge. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “It feels kind of like learning to run before learning to crawl.”

Her eyes narrow; that sort of _caution_ in learning something new doesn’t sound much like Lance at all, not for someone so eager to show off his often imagined natural ability.

“But you already know how to—” Keith shakes his head, eyes pinching shut. “Did you forget you only have today and tomorrow to learn to use your quiznaking sword?”

“Impossible to forget that,” Lance grumbles. He sighs, tilting his head back, and says, “Okay, fine.” His bayard extends before him, eyes slipping closed and face slackening.

Ticks pass with nothing happening, and when Lance opens his eyes Pidge releases a breath.

“Okay…that’s weird,” Keith says. “Are you sure you—”

“Yes, I tried!” Lance snaps, his lips twisting into a scowl. “I already told you I’ve only gotten it once, and that was an accident!”

“What happened to get it?” he wonders. “It might help if we replicated the conditions—”

“Why are you starting to sound like Pidge?”

Keith throws his hands up and exclaims, “I’m trying to _help_ you like you asked, Lance! Quit being impossible!”

“ _I_ _’m_ not the impossible one!” Lance argues. He brandishes his bayard in a wide, sweeping gesture. “ _This_ is impossible because I’m not under attack right this tick!”

“Under attack, you say?” Keith rubs his chin, a thoughtful grin overtaking it. “Then maybe you just need the right persuasion…”

Lance stares at him. “I have _no_ idea what you—”

“Ho, Paladins!”

Pidge covers her mouth to muffle a startled squeak when a pair of guards approach the pitch close to her hiding place. She tugs her feet closer and ducks her head, heart pounding while she makes sure the reeds conceal her from their eyes.

“What are you doing on castle grounds without His Majesty’s invitation?” a guard asks Lance and Keith.

“We’ve been here for vargas,” Lance says, “and you want to know that _now_?”

“Maybe this means you’re improving,” Keith says.

“You think so?” he asks hopefully.

“No.”

“Well?” the guard prompts before Lance can retort.

“We don’t need His Royal Majesty’s permission,” Lance sneers, anger painted all over his features.

“We had Minister Lirnem’s permission,” Keith cuts in with a reproachful glance at him.

A guard frowns, skeptical, but the other takes a data pad from his belt to check.

“So quit spying on us,” Lance adds.

“Lance, shut—”

“The Paladins do not lie,” the guard with the data pad says. “Carry on; no one else will bother you while you are here.”

“I highly doubt that,” Lance grumbles, but the guards walk away, returning to their beat without a care for his antagonism.

Keith’s hand lands hard on Lance’s shoulder. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s return to training…”

Pidge sighs as the guards disappear from her view, but her heart still pounds with the fear of getting caught outside her luxury prison cell. The sky is already darker than when she escaped, sunset fast approaching.

She glances towards Lance, of half a mind to sprint onto the pitch and tackle him and run off with him, to return to the Castle - steal their Lions if they have to - and never look back.

Would it really be such a bad idea to escape like that? No duel need be fought with such dismal odds in his favor, and he can _finally_ explain himself and his actions and his question - _“D-do you like the way_ I _look at you?_ _”_ \- from the ball.

But with King Thurar’s threats replaying in her mind almost as soon as the idea grips her, she knows it’s nothing more than a fancy born of naivete.

She’s been a Paladin of Voltron long enough to understand there are consequences to any deal where a party backs out.

So Pidge swallows the lump stuck in her throat and emerges from her hiding place, a woman returning to her own prison.

* * *

The thick reeds that line the marshy pitch rustle, and a short figure with mud staining a too-large white and blue baseball tee emerges.

Lance’s first startled thought is, _Who the quiznak is wearing my clothes?_

His heart skips a beat alongside his second: _Holy crow, that_ _’s Pidge!_

His chest tightening painfully accompanies the third: _Why the quiznak didn_ _’t she talk to me?_

She disappears from view down a path leading deeper into Tolemac Castle’s complex network of gardens, the green glow of the lights lining a bridge giving her a halo. A muddy angel, hovering nearby but just out of reach…

Catching a glimpse of her now teases his imagination, and Lance desperately needs to know how she’s been. Did she sleep well last night? Does she miss him as much as he misses her? Does she trust him to free her?

(Hunk told him she does when they briefly met on his way out of Tolemac Castle, when he said Pidge was angry with Lance but that he knows she won’t stay it for long.)

And how did she escape her room - though he can’t say he’s surprised, not with Pidge - and _why is she running away from him_?

His shoulders set in determination, and Lance stalks towards the entrance of the pitch, intent on following. Never mind King Thurar’s stupid rules! He _has_ to see—

Something long and black swinging towards his head catches his eye.

Lance ducks, his arms flying up to block the blow, but right before it connects, it stops.

He cracks his eyes open - he hadn’t realized he closed them - and meets Keith’s. “What the quiznak?”

Keith stares at his bayard and sighs. “I hoped that would work.”

Lance flails his arms and demands, “Why did you quiznaking _ambush_ me?”

His bayard disappears as he scuffs his feet against the squishy ground. “I thought I could startle you into summoning the broadsword,” he admits with a shrug. “Guess I’m not enough of a threat to you.” His eyes narrow, and Lance steps back reflexively.

“But anyway,” Keith continues, “let’s keep going. There’s probably another hour till it’s dark.”

Lance sags but picks up the blunted training sword, forcing himself to focus on Keith’s advice - rather than on Pidge’s figure retreating into the gardens and what might happen to her if she’s caught - and ignore the ache in his limbs begging him for rest.

A few doboshes later - longer than before but not enough of an improvement - he lies on his back with damp soaking into his shirt and mud streaking his arms and cheeks. He grits his teeth in frustration, heart still pounding from exertion and the fall, and watches the lights of shuttles and aircraft speeding across a navy sky.

“I’m forfeiting,” he grumbles, grip on the sword he at least managed to hold onto tightening.

Keith stands over him and frowns in surprise. “Wait, I thought you refused—”

“I’m _joking_!” Lance sits up and runs his fingers through his dirty hair - quiznak does he want a shower - before adding, “You know, to take the edge off the pain in my leg.” He rubs his shin, where Keith’s last blow landed and likely left a bruise.

“Kind of a bad joke…”

“I know,” Lance says, sighing. He glances back in the direction Pidge fled, his heart aching and stomach knotted with dread. “I know.”

* * *

Pidge loses track of the time she wanders the gardens searching for the way back to the rope dangling from her balcony, and by the time darkness truly sets in and the lights lining ponds and bridges flare into life, she finally admits to herself with mounting panic that she’s lost.

It doesn’t help that she changes her route often to avoid coming face to face with a Barsinian who may recognize her as their king’s…betrothed.

She gags when the word crosses her thoughts, and fear that it can become reality - when she recalls Lance’s abysmal progress in learning how to duel and that he has an Altean broadsword he never _told_ her about and that he can’t even summon it - gripping her.

But no, she has to trust Lance - and she _does_ trust him, but she’s always lived in the realm of fact and logic and both tell her that the duel won’t be in his favor.

Shame churns in her stomach, but she tries to push it away. She’s just being _realistic_ , and if Lance loses, she’ll just find another way to escape the fate of marrying a king that she doesn’t even _like_.

(She may have to give up that improbability engine…)

When she runs headlong into a figure in a dress after rounding a corner, Pidge thoughtlessly mumbles, “Excuse me.”

Her mouth dries as soon as she realizes what just happened - and that the figure isn’t moving - and she glances up. “Quiznak,” she says, eyes wide.

Minister Lirnem stares at her. “Green Pal—”

Pidge spins on her heel and runs, arms furiously pumping at her sides and breath lost to the air. She doesn’t care about finding the right wing of the castle anymore, not at a risk of getting caught - because she doesn’t even know what might happen if she is!

She sprints across a bridge, past a group of Barsinian children playing in a fountain and chasing bright insectoids that resemble dragonflies. Their glee with their activity gives her pause, and they’re non-threatening enough that Pidge risks halting at the end of the bridge, doubling over and gasping for air to fill her burning lungs.

She doesn’t notice the guard until gloved fingers wrap around her arm and the tip of his spear pokes her back.

Pidge’s head jerks up, and she tries to tug herself away. “Let me go!” she shouts, swinging her free hand around. She flings a clumsy fist towards the guard’s face, but it uselessly strikes his breastplate.

A shock travels up the bones in her hand, the pain forcing a gasp from her. “Quiznak,” she says, shaking out her hand.

“We are returning you to your apartments,” the guard tells her, face impassive under his helmet’s visor.

“My cell, you mean,” Pidge retorts bitterly.

“The less you struggle, the easier it will be.” His strength is too much for her to fight, and his destination is…the same as hers, so she doesn’t bother. But anger floods her, her blood rushing and her teeth grinding together.

If only she thought to bring that blunt breakfast knife…or paid more attention to the path she took to the training pitch.

At least she can scrub the mud and sweat from her skin when she returns, although she worries her shirt - Lance’s shirt - is beyond rescue.

The guard manhandling her shoves her unceremoniously through the door to her rooms. She lands on her hands and knees, a scowl twisting her face as her fingers bunch in the plush carpet. She slowly gets to her feet and is about to tug her shirt off when she notices she’s not alone.

King Thurar stands meters away, his glower burning a hole into her face.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to see _you_ until the duel either!” she blurts.

“And yet you were spotted leaving the same pitch at which _he_ trained,” the king replies in a barely level tone.

“I didn’t even _talk_ to him!” Pidge retorts, her arms flailing while her voice rises in frustrated hysteria. “And I hoped I’d never have to see _you_ again either!”

“And why not?” King Thurar demands, yellow eyes flashing. “I have given you every comfort—”

“Except my _freedom_!”

“—and the respect befitting any fellow scientist—”

“One tour of your lab is hardly _respectful_!”

“—and the protection due any future queen!”

“And yet, with you here, I feel less safe than ever!” Pidge paces across the floor, fists clenching and itching for something to throw at him. “I’ve faced Zarkon more times than I can count, so how is a small man like _you_ a worse threat to me?”

Because he separated her from her teammates? Because he stripped something from her even Zarkon and Lotor hadn’t? Because he operates under a veil of diplomacy and holds her hostage to force her friends to comply to his demands?

How is _she_ worth that? Doesn’t he know Voltron and the Coalition can destroy his planet in a matter of ticks?

But he knows they won’t, not even for a Paladin of Voltron.

And she wasn’t lying, not with her heart in her throat and fear freezing her insides. Frustration lives under her skin, but with every bit of control the king forces her to give up, panic rises just a little closer to the surface.

“I am not a threat to you,” King Thurar says even while his stiff body and his hand resting on the hilt of a sword and his _glare_ imply otherwise, “but I am not so fond of you that I will not have you confined to a moldy dungeon, which would be a pitiful start to your reign as the future queen of Barsina.”

“I will _not_ be that for you,” Pidge insists while the corners of her eyes burn with tears. “And the duel—what about the duel? You’re talking like you’ve already won it!”

A smirk - the first hint of something besides anger - twists his thin lips. “My guards reported to me what they observed of the Red Paladin’s skill with his weapon of choice, and I do not fear a loss.”

Pidge’s heart sinks, nausea more befitting of Hunk filling her, and she retorts, “Y-you don’t know how stubborn Lance is.”

It sounds weak even to her ears, what she saw with her own eyes contradicting her; obstinacy will only get him so far.

But she _has_ to believe what he’s doing will be enough.

King Thurar’s thumb caresses the hilt of his sword. “I look forward to seeing that stubbornness firsthand,” he says. “I only hope that your presence at the pitch did not distract him from his preparation so much; it would be a pity if he sustained worse than a simple flesh wound during our duel.”

And the quiznaker flashes her a nasty smile, driving his point home as a knife through the chest:

If Pidge escapes again, Lance will be the one to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes while i'm writing dialogue the part of my brain that has the sense of humor of a fifteen-year-old boy takes over...which is when you get the impromptu dick jokes
> 
> And if there's one thing i want from season eight (other than Honerva being the Big Bad we deserve and endgame plance), it's platonic klance. @ DreamWorks, show us the forbidden [other] Bonding Moments


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge forgets the court of public opinion, Allura frets, and Lance loses his shoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a scene i was super looking forward to writing ;)

Pidge doesn’t bother getting out of bed the following morning. No pressing business awaits her, no task begging her attention, no mystery to solve through action and thought. The entertainment console - whether media or games - holds no appeal to her, the tile ceiling more interesting in her exhausted fugue.

She slept fitfully after King Thurar’s visit, a part of her fearing he’d barge into the room unannounced as soon as she slipped into unconsciousness, greeting her with a blood-stained sword and bragging about Lance’s death. Her imagination kept her busy, and when she finally fell into a doze the walls surrounding her closed in, something in the corner creeping towards her but never straying from her periphery.

It incited a _need_ within her to flee, but terror paralyzed her.

But she forces herself upright and pushes her glasses - will she ever see her family again? Will the king even _think_ to invite his future in-laws to his wedding? - onto her face. Her eyelashes stick together when she blinks, and she’s sure she looks awful, especially after skipping a shower the night before.

(She almost took her shirt off in front of King Thurar so like _quiznak_ she was going to undress entirely with _that_ mortifying event so fresh.)

Perhaps if she makes herself as physically unappealing as possible the king will—

A sharp chime sounds from the door, the guard outside announcing over the comm, “Minister Lirnem is here to see you.”

A prickle of foreboding washes over Pidge when she recalls running into the minster on her mad dash back to her rooms, but she climbs out of bed and tells the guard to admit her.

Minister Lirnem doesn’t enter alone. Three Barsinian women follow, one pushing a cart laden with two covered trays, another with a data pad in hand and what looks like a fancy camera fit for National Geographic hanging carelessly from her shoulder, and the third with a briefcase and a long fabric bag draped over her shoulder.

“Uh…hi,” Pidge says, unsure what else to say while so conscious of her oily face and bed-mussed hair. “W-what do you want?”

She winces when the question slips out ruder than she means - and, well, why _shouldn_ _’t_ she be rude? Isn’t Minister Lirnem, who _promised_ to do something for her, complicit? - but before she can apologize or ask another in followup, Minister Lirnem wonders, “Why are your eyes red? Is that a…feature of your race that you usually cover up?”

Pidge’s lips part in surprise as she rubs her exhausted eyes. “I’m just…tired,” she says, and it’s not a total lie.

(Minister Lirnem needn’t know she cried herself into a stupor last night.)

“Well, if you need to bathe, then bathe. You have a dress fitting and a photo shoot, and you and I can speak over brunch after.”

Pidge’s eyes widen, limbs stiffening in shock. “A _dress fitting_? For _what_? For the duel? I wasn’t even fit for that bizarre dress I wore to the ball.”

(She _really_ hopes Minister Lirnem won’t wonder where that dress is now…)

“For the duel you can wear whatever you like,” she replies, primly clasping her webbed hands together. “So long as it is nice and befitting a lady of the court.”

“But I’m not—”

“If His Majesty wins, you will be,” Minister Lirnem reminds her almost impassively. But her thin lips press together, and Pidge wonders if she’s also unhappy with this situation. “This fitting, however, is for your wedding dress.”

If Pidge held something, she would’ve snapped it clean in half while her heart skips a stunned beat. “W-what? But I’m not—he hasn’t—Lance can still—”

“Attend to your morning needs,” Minister Lirnem advises her. “We will begin when you are ready.”

But Pidge will never be _ready_ to be the bride of a man that literally holds her hostage; her feet aren’t cold so much as frozen at absolute zero.

She forces air into her lungs and takes a stiff step towards the bathroom, and another, and the next, until a door separates her from the heralds of her fate. Tiles cool her bare feet, and her shell-shocked reflection stares back at her from over a marble basin.

Pidge grabs a towel, buries her face in its soft cotton-like fabric, and _screams_.

A part of her wants to escape again, never mind the witnesses that stand between her and the balcony, but she can’t, not with a threat hanging over her head - over _Lance_ _’s_ head.

It’s bad enough she’ll have to marry King Thurar, but if she has to watch him kill Lance too?

Her grip on the towel tightens, her whole body trembling and a sob bursting out of her. But she suppresses the next, taking deep breaths in an effort to keep her emotions in check.

It’s the only control that remains to her.

The shower gives her the opportunity to compose herself, and when she emerges with pruny fingers in a cloud of steam, her heartbeat isn’t too uneven and it doesn’t hurt so much to breathe.

She even manages a small smile for Minister Lirnem, who bids her to stand on a stool before the floor-length mirror in the corner. The tailor - or seamstress? - that she brought drapes a pale green gown over her, its hem covering the stool and a long train trailing behind her.

Pidge finds it ironic that a wedding dress is far simpler - and more elegant - than the gaudy ball gown now dangling from the balcony railing. Not a single thread of wire embroiders this gown, the sleeves made of a lacy material that falls past the tips of her fingers and tapers to a point. The collar is high and edged with the same lace as the sleeves - irritating her neck - and the skirt flares at her waist.

If she didn’t worry she’d trip over it - or if anxiety didn’t churn in her stomach - Pidge would be tempted to spin and watch the hem lift around her.

“You are…shorter than I expected, Green Paladin,” the seamstress observes as she marks where she needs to hem the dress.

“I’m guessing you didn’t design the dress I wore to the ball,” Pidge says.

The seamstress smiles thinly and admits, “My apprentice designed that. It was a project meant to test his mastery.”

“Did he pass?”

“He…did,” she says, “but only because His Majesty liked it.”

Pidge snorts, amused despite herself, and holds as still as she can while the seamstress pins the dress in places it hangs loosely.

She wears something more basic for the photo shoot but, naturally, embroidered with wires in a floral pattern that glows green. She complies with the photographers requests - except for one.

“Please smile,” she says, offering one of her own.

Pidge presses her lips together, partly because she has no reason to quirk them and partly out of defiance. Her fingers grip her skirt tightly, watching the photographer glance beseechingly at Minister Lirnem.

The minister sighs and says, “Carry on. The photographs are more important than her smiling.”

Pidge’s lips twitch out of triumph, but she keeps a straight face for the rest of the photo shoot.

The seamstress and the photographer leave after the shoot, and Pidge changes into her own clothes from among what Hunk brought her from her bedroom aboard the Castle of Lions. Minister Lirnem’s last escort sets up their meal at the small table, and Pidge sits across from her.

She picks at the tableware, the knot of dread in her stomach depriving her of any appetite the sight of Barsinian food hasn’t.

“Why the photo shoot?” Pidge asks when the silence as Minister Lirnem eats grows too stifling.

“The images are for a press release,” Minister Lirnem tells her. “The people of Barsina will have to know something of their future queen should His Majesty win the duel.”

Pidge’s stomach flips, her eyes widening; public relations was always Allura’s - and sometimes Shiro’s or Hunk’s - thing, so she never really stopped to consider what _implications_ King Thurar’s challenge would have on his subjects.

Perhaps she’d been too self-centered not to even wonder how Barsina itself would view her.

“I’d make an awful queen,” she confesses. She prods the black-dotted gelatin in her bowl with a spork.

“I told His Majesty as much,” Minister Lirnem says with a frankness that startles Pidge. She jerks her head back and stares at her, unsure if she should feel insulted or not, but the minister continues, “Your reputation as the Green Paladin preceded you, and it tells of a woman too devoted to her own research and family to lead a people, let alone a population and culture alien to her.”

“I…”

“Barsina needs an alliance with Voltron far more than it needs an alien queen,” Minister Lirnem explains. She sips her burgundy tea, the ceramic cup clattering on the saucer as she sets it down. “His Majesty did not care to hear that. It is his youth and inexperience, I am sure.”

Pidge’s grip on her spork tightens. “W-what did he tell you?” she asks, a part of her fearing the answer.

“He promised you will be able to research to your heart’s content.”

“How…kind of him,” Pidge says through gritted teeth, the spork’s handle bending slightly.

“His Majesty wishes he could devote more time to his own research and inventions,” Minister Lirnem adds, “so he desires a queen that can lead his scientific endeavors while he rules. His mother and predecessor ruled while his father, her consort, was an engineer, so I suppose he longs for the same partnership with his consort.”

Pidge sets her spork down and flexes her stiff fingers. Her heartbeat fills her ears as she chooses her next words carefully, “Why are you telling me this? So I’ll understand him?”

She can’t keep the bitterness from her voice nor the scowl from her face; why should she _understand_ a man that kidnapped her?

“In part,” Minister Lirnem concedes. She frowns at her half-empty tray - perhaps she has no appetite either - and says, “He was a child when his mother passed away, so I ruled as his regent until he came of age. I took us into hiding and restricted our travel in space to avoid too much attention from the Galra, but His Majesty wishes to set up alliances with other planets, and I cannot fault him for that.”

“Well, he’s doing it all wrong.” Pidge crosses her arms and glares at the woman sitting across from her.

“His method, while unconventional, can work,” Minister Lirnem says. “Voltron will not fight Barsina when it can cost them future allies.”

Pidge’s jaw sets stubbornly, but she can’t argue, not when she knows she’s right.

(They’d just help her escape some other way…wouldn’t they?)

“However, I do wonder…with such a start to your partnership—”

“Some partnership,” Pidge scoffs.

“—will you ever be so content to have been forced away from your friends and family and someone His Majesty suspects is your lover?”

“He’s not my—” she blurts on reflex, cutting herself off when she realizes even a truthful denial may do her no favors.

But her face warms at the way Minister Lirnem designates Lance, a heat in her chest because by _quiznak_ does she wish it’s true.

(He almost kissed her…didn’t he?)

“Do you love him?” Minister Lirnem wonders. “Do you love the Red Paladin?”

Pidge bites her lip - she’s never said it aloud and doesn’t wish to start now before a near-stranger that’s as good as an enemy to her - but irritably mumbles, “Yes, but…apparently it doesn’t matter.”

Minister Lirnem stands without replying and walks to the door. “A servant will come for the trays,” she says. “You should eat something. Winters in this part of Barsina are cold, and Tolemac Castle, for its beauty, is poorly insulated; you will need a little more fat on your bones to keep you warm.”

“Uh…” Pidge scrambles to follow, stunned. “Wait, Minister, I have a question.”

Minister Lirnem turns to face her, hands hidden in her long sleeves. “Yes?”

Her heart pounds as she asks, “If I…marry the king and, assuming I follow the laws of Barsina and fulfill whatever duties he expects of me, will I be able to see my family again?”

“If you marry the king,” she tells her, “he will be your family.”

Pidge’s chest tightens, and it takes more than a little effort to breathe. “Oh…then I’d better not marry him,” she says, sounding numb and painfully resigned to her own ears.

“No, I suppose you had better not,” Minister Lirnem agrees. “If there is nothing else—”

“Actually, can you ask one of my teammates to bring me something?” Pidge wonders. She knows her request is silly, especially with her future hanging in the balance, but she wants to be frivolous for once.

“So long as it is not forbidden you.”

“You said I can wear whatever I want to the duel?” Pidge smiles when she nods. “Can you ask them to bring me my dress? They’ll know which one…”

* * *

Lance woke up that morning telling himself that _today_ would be the day - or quintant? - he would _finally_ summon his Altean broadsword. Between Keith swinging at him - Lance suspected he enjoyed himself a little too much - and the drones on the training deck and his own determination, he hoped it would come true.

Instead, when Allura comes by the training deck to check on him, his bayard still fluctuates between his rifle and its base form and even when he deliberately allows the drones to close in on him, too near to aim a gun, he _can_ _’t_.

He chucks his bayard across the room.

A frustrated growl escapes him when it collides with the far wall, his fingers curling into fists. Anger - at the situation and at himself - floods him; Pidge depends on him, and he can’t even summon his bayard in the proper form?

“Lance?” Allura’s footsteps echo through the room, and her hand rests on his shoulder. “Did your bayard…do something to you?”

“That’s the problem!” Lance exclaims, spinning around and flailing his arms. “It’s not _doing_ what I need it to! I’ve tried everything we can think of - I even let the drones get close enough to me to _shoot_ me”—his shoulder stings as he’s not training with armor since he’s not allowed any for the actual duel—”but _nothing_ is working!”

Allura smiles, but he can tell it’s strained. “Have you tried—”

“ _Everything_ ,” Lance insists.

Her shoulders sag, a sigh escaping her. “You can’t go to the duel unarmed, Lance.”

“Can’t I?” He shrugs and holds up his fists. “I have two guns right here.” And oh, would a punch flying across King Thurar’s smug face be satisfying…

But Allura doesn’t smile - of course not, not when it’s barely a joke. “Perhaps you should ask Hunk to help you set up an alternative.”

“Maybe…” he concedes.

It’s not the first they’ve spoken of it, building a hurried and makeshift weapon for him to cart to the duel, but he stubbornly holds onto the wild hope that he can summon the broadsword from his bayard at will.

He _needs_ to; it’s his best bet, a weapon perfectly suited for him even if he hasn’t mastered it. And with Keith’s help over two quintants, he at least grasped the basics.

They won’t do him any good if he doesn’t have a quiznaking sword.

“Then do that,” Allura says. She frowns pensively and sighs. “I’m going to Tolemac Castle to visit Pidge. There are a few important things I need to discuss with her.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “What things?”

“It’s between me and her,” Allura says.

He crosses his arms, irritation flickering in him. “No, it’s not,” he protests. “ _I_ _’m_ the one fighting this duel, not you, so—” He cuts himself off, his stomach flipping with fresh fear, but anger quickly replaces it. “You’re preparing her for if I lose, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“What _does_ happen if I lose?” Lance wonders. His heart sinks with something akin to despair, but he forces it away. “We won’t… _abandon_ her, will we?”

Allura’s eyes widen, and she reassures him, “No, of course not! I will _not_ abandon her to a fate she doesn’t want, no more than you would.”

“And if we do, her family would probably kill us.”

Allura chuckles. “That they would, and we would deserve it.”

Lance runs his fingers through his sweaty hair, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “It won’t come to that,” he promises with more confidence than he feels. His eyes slide past Allura, to his bayard lying on the floor.

“I hope not,” Allura says. “And…is there anything you wish for me to tell Pidge?”

Lance can think of a million and one things he wants to tell Pidge: that he misses her and her laughter and her teasing so desperately his chest aches, that he’ll win the duel and free her, that he’ll _lose_ the duel and smuggle her away from a royal wedding if he has to, that he _loves_ her and her smile and her big brain and how she always has the answers to the questions both out of his mouth and from his heart.

And he wants to know why she didn’t even _talk_ to him when she escaped to the training pitch…and why he hasn’t seen her since.

Fear grips him, squeezing his heart, and he wonders if she was caught.

But to Allura’s question, he simply replies, “No.”

Everything he wants to tell Pidge he wants and _needs_ to tell her himself…so why doesn’t he?

Allura’s eyes narrow, in suspicion or skepticism, but she says, “All right. I will be on my way then.”

Lance mumbles a goodbye, barely paying attention to her departure in favor of the idea gripping him. If Pidge can’t see him…what’s stopping him from seeing _her_?

(Besides the duel’s stupid rules, at least.)

Lance collects his bayard and runs to his room for a shower - Pidge deserves better than to greet him at his smelliest. He clips on the cuff from his armor, the map to Tolemac Castle’s grounds downloaded onto it, and attaches a personal cloaking device - built by Pidge; they owe her so much - to his jacket.

(He just hopes Tolemac Castle doesn’t have any thermal cameras or sonar installed to survey its grounds.)

Excitement thrums through his blood, and it’s almost enough to drown out the worry that she won’t want to see him.

_Almost._

* * *

Pidge doodles on a data pad with a stylus, mind buzzing with what information she learned from Minister Lirnem. Her palms sweat - the stylus nearly slipped from her fingers barely a dobosh ago - and her heart stutters with anxiety, and she seeks to distract herself from her fate.

But scribbling designs for the robots she wants to build isn’t helping.

She pinches the Rover pendant of her necklace in her teeth, sliding the chain along it. Rover himself takes shape on the data pad, a black pyramid and a green circle on the screen.

The reminder of something else she loved that she lost makes her chest tighten.

It’s a relief when the door chimes, and a grin pushes at her lips when the guard announces, “Princess Allura here to see you.”

Pidge fidgets with the stylus in the time it takes for the locks to click open and Allura herself to walk through the door.

She smiles, and Pidge doesn’t hesitate to embrace her.

“Pidge,” she says when they pull apart, her hands on her shoulders like a proud parent’s - or like Matt’s. Her smile falters. “I am so sorry this happened to you; this is my fault.”

“What?” The apology shocks Pidge’s system, her jaw dropping. “No, it’s not!”

“It is.” Allura sighs, avoiding her eyes in favor of taking in the lavish room. “I encouraged you to charm the king. Perhaps if I instead—”

“No!” Pidge, unsure what to say or do to alleviate her concerns, shakes her head so fast she almost makes herself dizzy. “It’s not your fault at all! W-why would it be? It’s not like _you_ locked me in a tower and threatened Lance!”

“Maybe not, but I as good as—threatened Lance?” Allura’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “What do you mean? The duel is only to first blood.”

Pidge immediately regrets letting that slip, because if Allura takes that information back the Castle of Lions with her, Lance will find out. And if he finds out…he’ll be that much more likely to do something _more_ stupid. So she raises her hands and forces a smile on her face before backtracking, “Th-that’s what I meant! Even a paper cut’s threatening if you get it from a sword.”

(She winces, the contradiction in the statement almost painful when she doesn’t correct it.)

“If that’s it—”

“It is,” Pidge insists.

“All right,” Allura says, tone resigned. She sits heavily at the table, arm resting atop it. “Lance _has_ been doing all he can to win the duel.”

Pidge swallows as she drops into the chair opposite, mind drifting to the one training session she observed. Her stomach flips, but she agrees, “I know.”

“But…Pidge, Barsina’s not so valuable to the Coalition that we’re not willing to just walk away from an alliance.”

She stiffens and stares at her fingers wringing the hem of her shirt. “I’m guessing if I escape and leave we’d get worse than lose a potential ally.”

“You hit the head on the nail,” Allura admits.

“Nail on the head,” Pidge corrects automatically.

“Nail what on the head?”

“Never mind,” she mumbles. She clears her throat, skin crawling with sudden self-consciousness, and attempts to joke, “I guess we can’t all throw a royal suitor across a room to teach them a lesson.”

Allura grins and concedes, “I suppose not, although I would gladly throw His Majesty across his own grand ballroom on your behalf if I thought it would help.”

Pidge smiles, her chest warming with something like reassurance, and some of the tension oozes out of her shoulders. “And I would appreciate that. I’ll just have to settle for Lance poking him with a sword instead.”

And he _will_ , Pidge tries to convince herself. He _has_ to.

“I hope that will be the outcome of the duel,” Allura says, “but no matter what happens, Pidge, I want you to know that you will _not_ have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know I don’t,” Pidge says, her hands clenching into fists and jaw setting.

But the knot of dread in her stomach tugs tighter. What _if_ King Thurar wins the duel and she refuses to marry him anyway?

He’s already held Lance against her just for her one and only escape…

Allura’s visit stays brief, her updates on their team limited. She confesses to avoiding speaking to the Coalition - especially Earth, and _especially_ Pidge’s family - and adds that, despite the looming duel, Coran still works to find a legal loophole for them to exploit.

And Lance…well, he sent no message with her, and Pidge’s heart sinks in disappointment.

He vows to fight for her but doesn’t wish to say anything?

Pidge’s chest hurts when she thinks of Lance and the last time she saw him too hard, and as her fingernails dig into the palms of her hands, she wonders what _she_ would say to him if they faced each other.

For one, she’d demand what the _quiznak_ he—

A _thud_ from the balcony makes Pidge jump out of her chair. Her heart pounds as she creeps towards the door, remembering the rope she left tied to the railing. She pushes aside the curtains and opens the door and finds a shoe and—

“ _Lance_?”

Pidge’s breath catches as a familiar yelp rises from the balcony railing near the castle’s wall. She sprints across the balcony when Lance himself appears, the timer on a cloaking device running to zero while his body dangles from the railing.

She grabs his arms and heaves with a grunt of effort, muscles straining as his feet find purchase on the wall. She tugs him over the railing, stumbling backwards and panting when she lets him go and he falls.

Lance pushes himself upright, groaning and clutching his shoulder, her hasty lifeline in a pile beside him. “Th-thanks for the—”

Pidge launches herself at him, her arms winding around his neck as she presses her forehead to his collarbone. A lump sticks in her throat when she swallows, her eyes burning even as relief washes over her.

Lance hugs her tightly around the waist, his body trembling against hers and his heart pounding a rapid but steady beat. “P-Pidge, are you—”

A sob escapes her as she shakes her head. “N-no…w-what’re you doing here?” she demands. “You could’ve hurt yourself b-before the stupid d-duel…” She pulls away to look at him, to drink in his face, struck by a sudden gut-wrenching fear:

King Thurar never mentioned what would happen if Lance is caught _here_.

“W-we can talk inside,” Pidge says. She reluctantly extracts herself from his arms and stands, offering him a hand.

His wraps around hers, and even once they’re ensconced inside, away from the balcony where their voices can drift down to the busy gardens, he doesn’t let go.

“Pidge…” Lance cups her face with his free hand, and she leans into it, her eyes slipping shut. His thumb skirts across her cheek, and she sighs. “I-I’m here because I miss you.” His lips brush her forehead, and he runs his fingers through her hair.

Pidge sniffs, her hand gripping his like _it_ _’s_ a lifeline even as she says, “Y-you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Lance wonders, his eyes narrowing when she opens hers to meet them. “I-I saw you yesterday when I was training, but you didn’t come to—”

“I-it was risky,” she says, tearing her gaze away from his. “I could’ve been caught”—she _was_ caught—”and I didn’t want to distract you.”

“If that’s all, then why aren’t you looking at me?”

Pidge bites her lip and forces her gaze back up. “Better?”

Lance frowns, but he reassures her, “Don’t worry, Pidge. I’ve _got it_ , okay?” His hands warm her face, his forehead resting against hers while her fingers wrap around his wrists. “I’ll kick that king’s quiznak tomorrow, and we can go home.”

And Pidge, for all her anxiety and fear, believes him.

* * *

Lance’s heart pounds with him standing so close to Pidge, heat flooding his body to the tips of his toes and fingers even while regret that she’s _upset_ \- actually _scared_ \- fills him.

This is his fault, after all, so if he can inspire some confidence in her - even if he doesn’t have much himself - then he will.

He just hopes any she has in him won’t be misplaced.

He holds her close, arms wrapping around her and pulling her against him, and every shuddering breath she takes wracks his body, the necklace he gave her trapped between them. He’d happily spend the night like this - why should he return to the Castle anyway when he’ll be right back here in the morning? - but he came on a mission, and it begins with telling Pidge—

“Why did you never tell me about your bayard upgrade?”

Lance stiffens, surprised by her question and when she pulls back to meet his gaze, an eyebrow raised expectantly. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It…never seemed important since I never got it again.”

“Really?” Pidge frowns skeptically, her arms falling away from him to cross. “It’s a notable development seeing as how my and Hunk’s bayards have changed even if you haven’t been able to repeat it yet.”

Lance misses her warmth and tries to reach for her, but she takes a step back. “It was—”

“And why did you accept the king’s challenge anyway?” Pidge demands.

She’s angry with him, he realizes with a gut-wrenching certainty, and with how dismal his progress at learning how to use a sword - which he doesn’t even _have_ for the duel - he _deserves_ it.

Maybe that’s why he irritably quips, “I guess you didn’t appreciate the romance in my gesture.”

He knows it’s the _worst_ thing to say as soon as the words leave his lips even without Pidge’s face darkening and her lips twisting into a scowl. He knows it, because it doesn’t even come _close_ to hinting at the depths of his feelings for her, for how thinking of her with someone else _hurts_.

Pidge snaps, “There’s no _romance_ in this because _no one_ \- not you and not that jerk - asked what _I_ want!”

“But I—”

“Is _this_ what it takes for you to _finally_ notice me?” Pidge wonders. She flails her arms, and something like hurt tinges her voice. “For you to think you’re going to _lose_ me to a quiznaking king like you thought you lost Allura?”

He reaches for her with growing panic, tries to grasp her hand, but she wrenches it away. “Pidge—”

Her voice breaks, driving a stake deeper into his heart, as she says, “Y-you don’t have to _w-win_ me, Lance.” She sniffs and wipes at her nose with her sleeve. “You a-already _h-have_ me if only I h-have you too.”

An absurd heat rushes to his face, and her words stun him speechless even while his heart hammers in an effort to burst from his chest. His lips part uselessly as he seeks the words to reassure and comfort her and _tell_ her that of _course_ she has him!

He hesitates too long.

“F-fine.” Pidge, her face a burning and embarrassed red, unclasps her necklace and flings it at him.

Lance, startled, fumbles to catch the delicate gold chain and pendant as she shoves him towards the balcony. “Wait, Pidge—”

“Y-you’d better leave before the guards hear you and d-drag you away to be locked in a dungeon,” she tells him.

Lance trips over the threshold and tries to return the necklace to her, but she shakes her head. “This is yours,” he insists.

“I-I don’t want it,” she says, scowling despite the tears swimming in her eyes.

His chest tightens. “Katie, listen to me—”

Pidge turns her back to him, shoulders trembling, and says, “B-be careful on your way down. A-and…you’ll do great a-at the duel.” She flashes him a tight smile that makes his heart ache with the familiar pain of rejection right before she closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT APPROACHES


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Moment arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha hope it lives up to whatever [good] expectations you might've had!!

King Thurar grants Pidge three “boons” the morning of the duel:

She can wear whatever she likes so long as it “befits” a lady of the Barsinian royal court.

She can sit with her teammates during the duel as her “future betrothed” will be participating.

And she can meet with the competitors at the pitch, presumably to bless the one she prefers and to curse the one she disdains.

Or something like that.

Pidge revels in the freedom anyway, because a part of her fears it’s the last real freedom she’ll ever taste.

(Not that it would stop her, but she’s realistic enough to understand that nothing is without consequence.)

The guards that shadow her, for one, aren’t ideal.

“If you’re worried about me getting lost,” Pidge grumbles without glancing at her spear-wielding escorts, “you could’ve just given me directions to the pitch.”

“His Majesty would hold us accountable for your loss, Green Paladin,” one of the guards says.

“Of course…” Pidge rolls her eyes and mutters, “Wouldn’t want that.”

A wooden bridge trembles beneath them as they cross over a reed-choked creek, and finally, as the path rises and others converge onto this low hill, Pidge spots the stands that ring the pitch.

In size, it’s not unlike where the tournament was held on their first quintant on Barsina, but at this high of an elevation, water doesn’t flood the ground.

The soft marshy peat still gives underfoot, an unpleasant squish to it that Pidge will never get used to. Mud flecks her sneakers, staining the white fabric, and she’s glad her dress’s pleated skirt only brushes her shins.

The crowd only grows denser the closer to the stadium they draw (and where does everyone park their hovercraft?), the bulk of it funneling in through a few gates that lead up into the stands. But her two shadows guide her around towards a smaller door that, judging from the armed guards standing there and the fact that Minister Lirnem herself waits there, is some sort of VIP entrance.

“Are you ready, Green Paladin?” she wonders.

Pidge’s hands fist in her skirt, her heart pounding and heavy at the same time, but she replies, “Ready? I’m not the one competing.”

Minister Lirnem frowns almost skeptically. “If I may advise you, tell both men competing for your heart where they stand with you.”

Pidge squirms, uncomfortable with her scrutiny while shame sits in her abdomen. It’s almost as if she knows about Lance’s evening visit, about how she couldn’t sleep after she pushed him out while cycling through everything they said to each other and wishing she could make it better.

Had she really all but confessed to him? His presence barely felt real, his visit so fleeting she wonders if she imagined it.

Although surely if it’s a product of her imagination it would’ve ended a different way…

“I-I was planning to,” she tells Minister Lirnem.

“Which do you wish to meet first?”

Pidge doesn’t want to see King Thurar at all, but she knows Minister Lirnem has a point…although much good telling him exactly how she feels has done before. And Lance—

Well, Lance will need all the encouragement and confidence from her he can get, not to mention both the guilt and ache in her chest demanding she speak to him.

“I’ll talk to His Majesty first,” she decides.

The guards, rather than Minister Lirnem, escort her through the door and onto the strip of soft ground outside the fencing surrounding the small dueling pitch. They lead her to the closer end of the pitch, where King Thurar stands holding a sword pointed down and dressed in a simple white shirt and breeches.

Pidge represses an unpleasant shiver when his yellow slitted eyes fall on her, his thin lips quirking up into a tight smile. But she pushes back every hint of fear and ignores the anxiety churning in her gut, overtaking her guards to march up to him.

Her short cape billows behind her, invigorating her with the strength of an avenging angel or a superhero, and it’s enough for her to plant her feet firmly and tell King Thurar, “I hope you lose.”

His lip twitches, but his smile doesn’t falter. “And I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive what you perceive as wrongdoing on my part.”

“Unlikely,” she says through gritted teeth.

“And when I win?” the king demands.

“I still owe you nothing,” Pidge pronounces. “You separated me from my team and the man I _really_ love, and I know you wouldn’t think twice to keep me from my family too, so why I should I give you anything?”

“Then hope for _his_ victory,” King Thurar sneers, his face flushing green. “I will not suffer a violation of the duel’s terms lightly.”

“Terms I was never given the chance to agree to,” Pidge retorts bitterly. But she remembers that, for all the righteous fury making her limbs stiffen and pulse rush, he has no qualms against harming Lance. “You can call it scientific curiosity, but I want to know what color Barsinians bleed.”

Her cape whips around her when she spins on her heel and stalks away, heart racing in both fear and anticipation.

Lance waits for her on the opposite end of the pitch.

Like the king he’s dressed simply, in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A spear of sorts sticks out of the boggy ground beside him, but he clutches his bayard in both hands, eyes closed and brow furrowed.

His gaze snaps to hers before she can say a word. “Pidge,” he breathes, and she hates the disbelief thick in his tone.

“H-hi,” she says, raising a hand in greeting and trying not to feel self-conscious in front of the crowded stands or the guards keeping a respectful distance away. She swallows and wipes her sweaty palms on her dress as she approaches Lance.

His jaw drops. “Y-you look…”

“Not as ridiculous as at the ball, right?” Pidge says, a hopeful smile pushing at her lips.

“…a little overdressed,” Lance observes. But color fills his cheeks, and he awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck and adds, “You look amazing.”

Her face warms, and she clears her throat to say, “Thank you; it’s the one I wanted to wear to the ball, actually. And you look”—she bites her lip, searching for a suitable word—”vulnerable.”

“Oh, well,” he says, smiling, “the duel is to first blood so if we wore armor it would last a really long time, right?”

“Right…” Pidge hates how awkward this is, hates that she can’t say half the things she wants to. Instead she scrutinizes Lance, noting his tense shoulders and the way he steals glances at her.

She opens her mouth to tell him that she meant what she said last night - everything, especially about him doing _great_ \- but he reaches into a pocket in his pants and pulls out her necklace.

“Do you…want this back?” he wonders. “It would go great with the blue in your dress.”

Pidge blinks, startled, but smiles and says, “Yes.”

When she extends a hand, palm open, Lance side-steps her, standing behind her. Her skin heats when he pushes her hair away from her neck and loops the chain around.

The glittering green Rover pendant settles atop her collarbone just over the wide collar of her dress. Her hair brushes her shoulders when Lance lets it go, but neither of them moves.

Pidge breathes shallowly - is Lance really wearing cologne to a duel or is that just his deodorant? - and lets her surroundings, both sight and the noise of an excited crowd, dissolve. She opens her mouth to _finally_ tell him _something_ but—

“I’m sorry.”

Her skirt flares up as she spins around to face him, eyes wide in surprise. “You’re—”

Lance doesn’t quite meet her eyes as he explains, “You were right last night. I…this is my fault.” He shifts his feet, grip on his bayard tightening. “The thing is, Pidge, I _did_ notice you before.” He laughs without much humor and looks at her. “Maybe if I’d told you how I feel earlier I wouldn’t have felt the need to accept that stupid challenge. I’m sorry; I’m an idiot.”

Pidge’s heart races, her eyes threatening to pop out of her skull, but she finds the courage to take his hand and interlace their fingers. “You’re not an idiot, Lance,” she says with a slight smile, “but you are kind of a goofball and…” She sighs, eyes lowering to their feet so close together before she looks back up at him, to his steady gaze and face drifting towards hers. “I’m s—”

Lance kisses her.

A stunned gasp escapes her, and a part of her wants to be annoyed he interrupted _her_ apology when she waited for him to make it through his. But the dominant part wants to kiss him back.

So Pidge does. Her chest feels lighter than hydrogen - and just as flammable - when she returns the soft press of lips, when she flings her arms around his neck and his wind around her waist and her feet lift from the ground.

And it doesn’t matter that they could’ve done this sooner so long as they’re in each other’s arms now.

But Pidge remembers where they stand - or where Lance stands and practically carries her - when they part breathlessly.

“Th-that was just a good luck kiss,” Lance stutters as he sets her on the ground…although he doesn’t let go.

“Y-you know you could’ve asked, right?” Pidge tells him. But a grin splits her face, offsetting the trepidation that returns to her now her feet sink into peat again. She cups his cheek and leans up to kiss his chin - the closest part of his face she can reach - and smiles even wider when he blushes darker. “And you won’t need luck, goofball.”

Lance laughs sardonically. He drops his forehead onto her shoulder, his arms shifting around her so that his bayard pokes her leg. “Really?” he grumbles, voice muffled in her skin and his warm breath shooting heat all the way to her toes. “All I have is a clumsy spear Hunk helped me put together last night because I _still_ don’t have my own sword.”

His bayard prods her again, hard enough she winces. But a smirk stretches her lips, and she says, “Oh yeah? Is that a sword in your hand, Lance, or are you just that happy to see me?”

* * *

“Holy crow.” The Altean broadsword slices through the wooden fence surrounding the core pitch like it’s butter, cleaving a plank cleanly in two.

Lance grins, and between the sword’s sudden appearance and the memory and haunting sensation of Pidge’s lips on his, his confidence surges. He flashes a glance towards the stands where his teammates sit, watching Pidge greet and hug them all in turn, and when he catches Keith’s gaze he pumps a fist.

Keith offers him a thumb up, his eyes still as wide as they were when Lance’s bayard first materialized in that form.

“Quit your vandalism,” a nearby armed guard chides him. “Turn your sword against your opponent, not the fencing.”

Lance flashes him a smirk, utterly undeterred by the scolding. His chest is light and full of warmth, his feet barely touch the ground as he walks to the center of the pitch to meet the king, his limbs limber and loose from stretching, his hopes set on victory.

And armed not only with a sword but with the knowledge that Pidge wants _him_.

He can’t help a little swagger in his step as he approaches King Thurar, can’t help a satisfied smirk that only grows wider when the king’s gaze falls on him and turns into a _glower_.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” Lance greets him brightly. “How are you this fine day?”

“I am prepared to see your claim to the Green Paladin’s heart as dead as Emperor Zarkon.”

The slightest hint of irritation prickles Lance - what if he refuses to give up even after Lance wins? - but he keeps the smirk plastered on his face and says, “That’s unfortunate seeing as Pidge actually likes me.”

“Enough talk,” King Thurar says, eyes flashing yellow as he raises a sword that sparkles in the sunlight. “Now we fight.”

Lance’s stomach flips. He backs a few paces away from the king, a young Barsinian woman crossing to the center of the pitch with a longbow and a single knocked arrow with the tip blinking. She angles it up, pulling back the string and loosing it.

He only got a crash course in duel etiquette from Coran and his research along with a few last-dobosh tips from Minister Lirnem, so it still makes his heart skip a beat when the arrow trails steam and whistles through the air.

It explodes, silencing the bustling crowd as red and green sparks rain down from the sky.

King Thurar raises his sword.

Lance mirrors him, setting his feet and conscious of how easily the ground gives beneath them. But when the king charges, he’s ready.

He jerks his sword up to block the first blow, and the shock of it travels up his arms. But he holds steady, pushing back and, when the king pulls back and readjusts, Lance shifts his grip.

“Why do _you_ think you deserve Pidge anyway?” he demands as he dances just out of King Thurar’s reach. “What have you done for her except lock her in a tower?”

The king scowls as Lance swings for his arm. “Now is not the time for—”

“It’s the perfect time!” Lance retorts. His focus narrows, blood rushing past his ears and washing away the noise of the crowd, leaving only him and a man that holds no real respect for Pidge.

“Will _you_ play video games with her when she’s bored?” he wonders through teeth gritted with anger and determination. “Will you hold her sweaty hand when she’s anxious and bring her peanut butter cookies when she’s homesick and carry her to bed when she falls asleep working?”

Every cut and parry steels his nerves and pumps him full of adrenaline. For every blow King Thurar rains on him, for every blow he blocks, Lance retaliates just the same.

Sweat runs down his brow and mud sucks at his shoes, and every breath he takes makes his lungs ache. But he still says, “Does she make you want to learn more about how the universe and her _brain_ work, or do you just want someone you only _think_ thinks like you?”

King Thurar’s lips twist. He drives forward, sword raised and slashing. “Enough!”

With every word, Lance’s confidence surges. He smirks and says, “You don’t love her; you don’t even _think_ you love her!”

The king yells in wordless rage, skin tinting green. Lance gasps when his blade passes so close to his face air whips against his cheek. The king isn’t more skilled than Keith, he reminds himself.

_“Quit chatting and stick him with the pointy end!”_

Speak of the devil…

Keith’s shout of what’s _probably_ meant to be encouragement pierces his focus. He grimaces, ignoring it and jumping away from his opponent.

_“Don’t let him hit—!”_

“Shut your quiznak!” Lance shouts…right as King Thurar’s sword slices through the air towards his neck. He raises his sword, grip slipping, but he only just parries the blow.

The falter costs him. He steps backwards, a gasp escaping it while his heart pounds a frantic beat, and the king, sensing weakness, plows ahead while his lips twist into an ugly smirk.

It takes all his strength and speed to dodge and shield against cuts meant for his _head_ , cuts that, if Lance doesn’t know any better, are intended to kill him.

Realization hits; that’s _exactly_ what King Thurar wants.

But Pidge depends on Lance, depends on him to finish this with a victory for himself. And if he must lose, well, she’ll depend on him (and the rest of the team) to protect her from a fate she doesn’t want.

Lance won’t die here.

But he’ll fall.

He doesn’t notice the point of King Thurar’s sword tearing through his sweatpants and slicing his thigh, doesn’t notice anything until he stumbles and something warm soaks into the fabric and sticks to his skin.

Lance lands on his knees, holding himself upright with his bayard’s tip pressing into the ground. A long sliver of his skin burns, and he winces.

“Quiznak,” he hisses.

_“Lance!”_

He looks in the direction of his name in time to see Pidge in a lower level in the stands, shooting to her feet with wide eyes and her fingers clutching at the barrier separating her and their friends from the pitch. The others look as alarmed as she is, but all Lance can wonder is if she’ll forgive him for failing her.

He’s lost the duel.

King Thurar stands over him, a smug grin stretching his mouth and Lance’s blood dripping from the tip of his sword. “Do you concede defeat?”

He glowers up at him, the throbbing in his wounded leg nothing to the fury that fills him. His grip on his bayard tightens, and he pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily against it…only to slip and for his knees to land in the mud with a jolt that aggravates his injury and gets a pained yelp from him.

Lance’s eyes widen in alarm when the end of a sword slides under his jaw, forcing his head up to meet King Thurar’s eyes. His own blood stains his chin, but he refuses to show anything less than defiance to a man that abused his position to mistreat Pidge.

The first fracture in his victory shows when King Thurar’s smirk disappears. “It is customary to surrender when one loses a duel.”

Lance’s heart pounds in his ears as the spectators in the stands seem to collectively hold their breaths. He can only just see his teammates from his periphery, can see all of them now on their feet though he can’t make out their expressions. Even Minister Lirnem stands beside them, but his head spins, and he can’t figure out if that means anything.

But Pidge…

Quiznak the rules of the duel!

Lance’s bayard shifts, melting away in a flare of blue light and reforming into his preferred rifle. And before King Thurar can so much as take an alarmed step backwards, he raises it and aims right for his forehead.

From such close range, a sharpshooter can’t miss.

“ _Never_.”

* * *

Pidge vaults over the railing, landing in the strip of marsh between the stands and the fence. She ignores the shouting of her guards, ignores the alarmed calls of her friends, ignores that voice in her head that sounds like her mother scolding her for romping around in inappropriate clothing.

All that matters is racing to an injured Lance before he does something even more stupid than accept that first challenge.

Pidge clambers over the fence, panting and nearly slipping on a slick patch of moss. But she recovers her footing quickly and darts forward.

“Lance!” she gasps. “Put your bayard away!” She slides into place beside him, heedless of King Thurar’s glare turning onto her, and grabs Lance’s arm. “Y-your leg—”

“I’m fine,” Lance says through gritted teeth. His eyes are fixed on the king, but they soften as they fall on her. “What’re you doing here, Pidge?”

But she turns to King Thurar, her heart pounding both from her mad dash and out of fear, and says, “If you don’t put _your_ sword away, you’ll have worse than his blaster to worry about.”

The king’s eyes narrow, but he lowers his sword. “It is no matter if you do not surrender, Red Paladin,” he pronounces. “A loss for you is a win for me.”

Pidge presses her lips together; she’s so fed up with King Thurar that his words are little more than a buzzing in her ear. Instead she leans down, taking Lance’s arm and flinging it around her shoulders.

“Are you okay to stand with my help?” she mutters into his ear.

Lance’s cheeks redden, but he nods, and she exhales a sigh of relief when he dismisses his bayard. “What now, Pidge?” he asks, his face falling. “I-I lost…”

Pidge straightens, waiting for Lance to stand with her. He leans heavily into her side, a grimace crossing his paling face, and his blood - did King Thurar’s sword cut a major artery? - soaking into her dress.

Her chest tightens with worry, but she cups his face and reassures him, “I-it’ll be fine, Lance. We’ll think of something else.”

“What else is there?” King Thurar says. His eyes narrow to slits. “You and I will still be married by the end of the movement.”

Pidge’s eyes pinch shut, but her temper won’t be reined in. “All this and you _still_ think I'll marry you?” she snaps. “Well, I’m going to marry _him_.” She points at Lance, for once not resenting how easily she blushes.

“…what?” Lance says, and she can hear his unsteadiness. “Pidge, y-you’re getting…married?”

Pidge winces, her heart sinking. How much blood has he already lost? He needs a healing pod, or at the very least medical attention. She turns back towards the stands, hobbling towards where Keith already approaches from the fence ready to help support Lance.

But King Thurar isn’t done with her.

His hand lands on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks, and when she smacks his arm away, he demands, “You would reject me for _him_? I am king of a great planet more technologically advanced than your own, a scientist in my own right, and what is _he_?” He sneers and spits, “He may be a Paladin, but would you really choose someone so unintelligent for a partner?”

“What do _you_ know about partnership?” Pidge retorts. Her arm around Lance’s waist tightens, finding strength from from his presence as much as from her anger. “Your intelligence means _nothing_ to me next to him! Lance is clever in his own way, and affectionate and curious and kind even if he’s sometimes petty.” She swallows around a sudden lump in her throat - she’s never been so open about what, exactly, she sees in Lance - and adds, “A-and he makes me laugh and understands me. So what if he’s a goofball?”

“Pidge…” Lance murmurs, her name so soft when his lips brush her ear. “Do you really…think all that about me?”

“And if that’s not enough for you,” Pidge grits out through her teeth, “ _I_ _’m_ not bleeding, so if you like I’ll get my bayard and fight you for myself.”

But a gasp escapes her, her arm shaking with the strain of holding Lance upright. Keith is at her side to help, Allura and Hunk right behind him.

“I’ve got him, Pidge,” he reassures her, supporting him from the other side.

King Thurar is green in the face, looking about ready to explode, when Allura cuts in.

“I think we’ve put up with enough _nonsense_ from you,” she almost spits. “Barsina is not so valuable an ally, despite your improbability engine and despite your dirty threat of _warring_ with us.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Need I remind you, Your Majesty, that Barsina needs the Coalition far more than the Coalition needs Barsina?”

“A-Allura?” Pidge says. “Are you—”

“If their king cannot respect the Green Paladin’s autonomy,” Allura continues, looking _almost_ as angry as Pidge has ever seen her, “why should the Coalition respect Barsina’s?”

Pidge’s eyes widen, her chest warming even while her stomach flips, the future still uncertain.

Lance snorts, a wry and satisfied smile turning up his lips. “Check and…quiznak.”

All tension leaves his body when he finally passes out.

“Lance!” Pidge says. She glances past him at Keith, and without a word he scoops Lance up.

Pidge follows him and Hunk away from the pitch, the cacophony of the crowded stands little more than the buzzing of a beehive to her. She pays no mind to the guards that assail them, no mind to King Thurar’s and Allura’s impromptu and tense negotiations on the pitch.

They find Minister Lirnem herself outside, standing beside an unmanned hovercraft.

Keith stiffens, and Hunk steps between them and her, but Pidge’s chest seizes with a wild hope. “Can we trust you?” she asks.

Minister Lirnem smiles ever so slightly as she gestures to the hovercraft. “It is already running,” she tells them. “My grandson loaned it to me, so see that you bring it back intact. I would also appreciate you cleaning out the bloodstains.”

“Thank you,” Pidge says, realizing they had an ally on Barsina all along.

Keith and Hunk waste no time in settling Lance into the hovercraft’s backseat before climbing into the front. Pidge climbs into the back, sitting cross-legged and pillowing Lance’s head on her lap while her heart pounds. She feels for the pulse at his neck still thrumming strongly under his skin before tearing off her cape and tying it in a makeshift tourniquet around his upper thigh. She takes his hand in her sweaty palm and squeezes.

She wonders if she imagines his fingers grasping hers back.

Keith and Hunk squabble briefly over who gets to drive, but Keith wins by virtue of seniority and skill. He flashes a quick smirk over his shoulder that quickly sobers when his eyes fall on Lance’s injury.

“He’ll be okay, Pidge,” he tells her.

Pidge leans down and brushes her lips to Lance’s forehead. His breath stutters where it spreads over her cheek. She smiles and knows she’s not lying when she says, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record i very much doubt Lance gets his sword in any way like that...but it's convenient (and fun!!) for this fic that he does ~~though i guess we're finding out very soon lol~~
> 
> also Hunk and Keith would definitely argue over who drives between them. for one Hunk is only not biting his nails while he's driving (also he gets motion sick right?? so obviously he's susceptible to carsickness _unless_ he's driving), but Keith is a bit of a control freak when it comes to vehicular motion (on top of which he's an insufferable "back Lion" driver) so of COURSE they both want to drive


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance wakes to a dismal memory, but Pidge reminds him what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here is the gross fluffy epilogue!!
> 
> thank you to everyone who read!! i hope you enjoy the end ;)

Lance jolts awake after a bizarre dream, squinting against a blaring light, but when he tries to roll over in bed he falls forward instead.

And right into someone’s waiting arms.

“Mm, Pidge,” he murmurs right as his jaws split into a yawn. “Y-you were in my dream…” he slurs, his arms winding tightly around her waist. He smacks his lips together, grimacing at the bitter taste of sleep, but smiles when Pidge returns his hug, her arms slipping around his neck as the strength returns to his legs.

She’s so warm…so warm compared to the chill inside a healing pod.

And just like that, Lance is wide-awake.

He straightens, eyes wide as he stares down at Pidge without leaving the fold of her arms. “That wasn’t a dream,” he says, heart skipping a stunned beat. “I really did lose a duel to a king that tried to force you to marry him.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” she says. “ _That_ _’s_ what you remember?”

Lance smiles hopefully even as his chest tightens with worry. “I-I’d hoped the losing part was a dream.” He cups her face with both hands - because he remembers he _can_ now at least - and says, “D-do you need me to kidnap you or something like Lancelot did with Guinevere?”

Pidge bites her lip before smiling, her cheeks flushing pink. “Thanks for the offer, Lance, but first of all, what the quiznak?”

Lance’s jaw drops. “Uh…”

“Second of all, I’m not married.” She lightly smacks his cheek, her smile turning teasing. “Coran brought an old case to the king’s attention that proved he had no legal right over me”—she rolls her eyes so hard Lance wonders how they don’t pop out of their sockets—”and then it even took a call from Ryner to really persuade him.” Pidge grins. “Apparently she said I’m like Olkarion’s honorary princess and an insult to me is an insult to them.” She laughs and adds, “Maybe we should’ve set my mother on him too…”

“So…” Lance rests his forehead against hers and breathes in her familiar scent of floral shampoo and spearmint toothpaste and something _scorched_. “One of us is marrying royalty after all?”

Pidge frowns. “Who—oh.” Her face turns a livid red, and his own warms at the implication in what he said, even when he reminds himself that it’s nothing she didn’t say first. She grasps his wrists and admits, “I, uh, didn’t think you’d remember _that_.”

Lance’s heart sinks. “Did you mean it?” he dares to ask.

Pidge’s nose brushes his as she tilts her head back, her warm breath falling on his cheek. “I meant every word,” she whispers.”

“Even the…compliments?” he wonders. “Even when you called me petty?”

Pidge smiles, her lips so close to his he almost feels it.

He _wants_ to feel it, but before he can close that slight gap between them, Pidge adds, “Thanks for fighting for me, Lance, but you could’ve saved yourself the trouble by flirting with me sooner.”

Lance pulls away with a groan and buries his face in one hand. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate it,” he grumbles.

Pidge tugs on the collar of his pod suit, and he leans back down as she says, “Now that you know, I hope you’ll make up for lost time.”

Lance smirks, a little thrill going through him as ideas of how, exactly, to flirt with her bombard him. “With pleas—”

Pidge silences him with a soft kiss, a sigh escaping her when he tilts her head and returns the pressure.

His chest fills with warmth, happiness odd in how overwhelming it is. He pulls away, breathless with it even more than with the brief kiss, and blurts, “I love you, Katie.”

“I love you too,” she says, the grin on her face so wide it looks almost painful.

Their lips meet again somewhere in the middle, and this time, with their feelings out in the open, with love and a blessed confidence informing his actions, with his heart racing, there’s something different in it. Something electric in her touch, in her fingers combing through his hair and her arm flung around his neck, something in touching _her_ , in one hand cupping her face and in the other on her waist, his thumb brushing that bare strip of skin that peeks—

They spring apart when someone clears their throat.

Lance glances sideways at Pidge, his face somehow turning impossibly warmer when their eyes meet, but their teammates - even a smirking Hunk, a wide-eyed Keith, and a bemused Coran - leave them no time to explain.

“Lance, you’re awake!” Allura exclaims, a broad smile on her face as she surges forward ahead of the others and throws her arms around him.

Lance smiles and returns her hug while the others gather around him. “Yeah, where were you guys when I woke up?” he asks. “I would’ve expected a little more love.” He pulls away from Allura and appraises the others.

“Hey, you’re not getting anything near what you got from Pidge from me,” Keith says.

“He’d better not,” Pidge retorts with a suspicious glance at him.

“Shouldn’t you eat and rest before you and Pidge get up to anything?” Hunk wonders in an irritatingly suggestive tone made worse when he raises an eyebrow.

She covers her red face with one hand and grumbles, “Don’t make me regret missing you, Hunk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. He sweeps Lance up into a backbreaking hug and adds, “You had us worried there.”

Lance groans, his arms trapped against his sides, and sighs in relief when Hunk lets him go. “Th-thanks, buddy.” He pats him on the shoulder and smiles.

“Yeah, His Majesty sliced through your femoral artery,” Keith says almost cheerfully. He crosses his arms and glances at Allura. “I still wonder if he knows enough about human anatomy for that to have been intentional…”

Pidge pales, her eyes widening before a scowl twists her face, but Allura’s quick to jump in, “That’s behind us now and we’ll have to give His Majesty the benefit of the doubt. Minister Lirnem assures us negotiations for Barsina to join the Coalition will now proceed as _originally_ planned.” She frowns, sagging slightly, and continues, “That being said, it’s for the best if neither Lance nor Pidge attend any meetings with him.”

Lance grins in relief and exchanges a glance with Pidge. He can think of a million and one things he’d rather do with her now that he doesn’t have to see King Thurar’s smug frog-like face ever again.

“Give him quiznak,” Pidge says, crossing her arms while Lance wraps an arm around her shoulders. “He deserves it.”

Allura bares her teeth in a threatening smile that would’ve sent a shiver up Lance’s spine if it was meant for him. “With pleasure.”

Hunk’s broad hand rests on Lance’s shoulder. “I still can’t believe that ‘true love’s kiss’ broke that spell that kept you from summoning your Altean broadsword, Lance.”

He shoots him a glare, but Keith asks, “What are you talking about, Hunk? It was Lance acting on instinct like a Red Paladin would when he kissed Pidge before the duel.”

Hunk stares at him incredulously. “Keith, my very good friend,” he says, “it was a joke.”

“For quiznak’s sake,” Pidge hisses, glowering at each of them in turn…although the effect is offset by how red she is. “You’re all _voyeurs_!”

“We can’t help it if you kiss in public,” Keith points out.

“Yeah, get a room next time,” Hunk adds with a sage nod.

“At least I don’t have to train Lance anymore,” Keith says. “In the end, I’m not even sure it mattered since he lost anyway—”

“Hey!” Lance exclaims with a prickle of irritation.

“—but it was worth it for Pidge.”

“I am extremely relieved it didn’t come to war,” Allura says, smiling, “and it’s partly in thanks to Coran’s research.”

“Yes!” Coran thumbs his mustache, a manic gleam entering his eye as he launches into what’s sure to be a long-winded explanation, “There is an historic case from about two centuries ago where two men fought for the affections of the same woman.”

“What happened with them?” Lance wonders while also guessing he’ll regret it.

“The queen at the time ruled that the woman need not be compelled into accepting the winner or even into rejecting the loser as she did not wish to marry either of them.” Coran grins impishly. “She left them both quite bereft and moved to the countryside to establish a very successful business breeding grofs. It still operates to this day, run by descendants of her nephew since she never had any children.”

Lance turns to Pidge and asks, “You’re not leaving me to breed grofs, are you?”

Pidge raises an eyebrow as she loops her arm around his waist. “I like you way more than I like frogs, Lance,” she promises.

The simple response warms him to the core. He smiles at her and wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, if only because he can. “That’s a relief,” he mumbles, smiling even wider when she leans into him. Louder, he says, “Coran, you…really did your research.”

“Quite,” Coran agrees. “It was rather interesting! When King Alfor and I got into scraps on alien worlds, it always fell to me to research the legal codes and convince the authorities that we did not _technically_ break any laws!”

Pidge frowns. “Yeah, well, it’s too bad you didn’t find that case till _after_ Allura threatened His Majesty with the Coalition’s might.”

“It did take Minister Lirnem directing me to the right documents,” Coran admits with a sigh. “I suppose I was never really meant to be an attorney…”

Lance’s jaw drops, but after all this, he can’t find it in himself to be frustrated. Instead he laughs, his shoulders shaking, and Pidge laughs with him, her body trembling against his.

And the others join, everyone - even Keith - crowding Lance and enveloping him in the warmth of a group hug that rivals his mother’s embrace.

In the midst of all these arms and hands, a small one finds his, short fingers fitting perfectly between Lance’s, a sweaty palm flush against his, a simple gesture as full of love as his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate ending: the king forces Pidge to marry him anyway but Lance and the Red Lion burst through the stained glass ceiling of the chapel at the wedding screaming "I OBJECT" before whisking Pidge away while they ride off into the ~~sunset~~ nebula from the NYCC teaser
> 
> look, most of my headcanons for these characters crop up as a result of writing fic. so Coran being his and Alfor's not-lawyer?? that's new and i embrace it wholeheartedly
> 
> ANYWAY i hope you enjoyed this ride!! don't forget to drop a comment if you did <33

**Author's Note:**

> the fic is all written (minus some editing), so i plan to post new chapters twice a week with the hope of having it complete by the time the last season premieres!!
> 
> thank you for reading, and if you liked it, put a comment on it or drop me a message [on tumblr](https://sp4c3-0ddity.tumblr.com/) ~~while it's still kicking~~ ;)


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